i tried to drink
my feelings away
until i nearly drowned
but their grief,
patient as a vulture,
kept waiting for me
even at the gates
of the afterlife.

i’ve been on happy pills
for half a year.
more often than not,
i feel like a buried seed,
twisted and tangled
in a graveyard of dreams,
yearning for the light
the darkness has taken from me.

like a river
carving through rock,
i do what’s expected:
show up,
go to the shops,
hydrate,
light candles,
wash my hair,
bake,
then exercise,
get up on a stage
where i pour
my feelings out.

i’m in recovery.

i don’t drink.
i’m pretty sure
i’ve tried everything.

yet, i feel like a canvas
stripped of colour,
a paintbrush,
bristles frayed,
dragging the last stroke
of a story
that i fear will end
before i reach
the last page.

six months
after leaving home,
i returned for the holidays.
it wasn’t the warmth
that stayed with me
but the shortage of praise.

i didn’t expect it —
i didn’t expect anything,
just a friendly check-in.

i was surprised to learn
that the people i worked with,
part of the reason i left,
were so smothered
by their own bitterness
they wished for me to fail —
to run back home
after a few weeks,
admit the dream
was too silly,
too frail.

they didn’t hate me,
just my courage —
that i dared
to refine my life
while theirs
stayed the same.

busy in a world
i could call mine,
i remained gone
and let their silence
become my applause.

you said
it would work out.

it didn’t.

i hate
that i knew
i’d be right.

you mock my pain,
cheering me on.
like —
for real.

i’m annoyed.
a bit hurt.
disappointed,
because my first attempt
didn’t work.

you tell me it’s okay —
when it’s not.
you say it’s an easy fix —
i know it is.
yet i sit in the grump,
because i wasted time,
energy,
looking forward to this.

if it’s a let-down,
you say, ten percent of it is.
i say, ninety —
so you argue,
i’m too pessimistic.

bite me.

you think i'm empty.
a broken code.
a *****, a waste
of human skin.
you say,
i'm too pretty
to be like this.

this isn't a choice.

i feel too much
for there to be space
for what you call
lust.

you don't need an apology.
no one does.
my brain is not a crime scene
for you to investigate,
neither is my heart.
you may think me cold
but you've never seen
the bonfire,
always kindling,
for the ones i keep close.

outside, the cold air
unwraps my skin.
i’m listening to a friend
tell us a story
that feels rehearsed,
meant to impress
but all i can think about
how sweet my drink is
and the length of that girl’s dress
across the street.

then i see him —
half-familiar, waving.
i don’t remember his name,
but he does me,
goes on about
jobs he’s changed
and the old team.
i’m the only one left.

he asks if life
is treating me well.
i nod.

he asks if i’m happy.

i look down,
searching for the answer
between cigarette ash
and concrete.

“if you need to think about it,”
he says,
“you’re not.”

his words stay with me
for the rest of the night,
then the week,
then the month.