recovery

How many different ways can I describe this blood on the floor? How many different pictures can I paint of you with your back turned? How many solutions can I hold in my palms and how many times can I watch them slip through my fingers?

I once thought the answer ‘infinite’. No more. Ten times. Thirty. A hundred. But slowly, the urge to capture my pain is giving way and making room for the need to write about how much bravery it took to put myself back together. About how high the cliff around rock bottom was and how, eventually, I climbed it anyway.

Now I am measuring the cuts on my hands, noting the colour of my bruises and admiring them for what they are. Proof that I survived.

I once charted a map of the devastation you caused, now I am outlining a mountain range that looks suspiciously similar to my newfound heartbeat.

❀❀❀❀❀

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