This recovery is like a bruising. My depression didn't quite pierce the surface and **** me, But still I bleed on the inside With the damage contained but still visible. First my recovery was red and swollen, A tender lump raised from battle Still too wounded to accept the name "recovery." But as red became purple And my blues began to set in, I leaked back into myself Now a flood rather than a mountain My depression slowly beginning to drown. Green felt like a turning point, New growth that didn't hurt as much when I poked it (When my depression poked it.) The flood seems to have run its course now, Replaced by yellows and finally browns As this burnt battlefield turned into new soil that settled back down again. Recovery is slow, painful, and has many shades However, our need for it is as consistent as a bruise, And just as dependable to come to an end with time.