Today I woke up on the shoreline,
more dead than usual.
The sea salt still in my hair,
and under my breath, the fresh scent of gin.
Never have I felt more cold,
cycling under the trees, feeling the sun on my skin and knees.
Words are screaming through my eyes.
Words are crying through my eyes.
But I cannot even piece these words together,
as we do not speak the same language.
Life feels as though it’s dripping through my hands,
with isolation as my cure.
It’s like untying a knot that never ends.

Does anyone feel love in me?
Does anyone feel truth in me?
If I disappear, would anyone care?
A cold, starving depression feels like my only answer.

People are afraid to be around me,
Because I do not promise them something predictable.
I move on and away,
without a single trace.
I am a broken flower that’s been stepped on,
lying in a sea of cement.
But when I think of God,
I see a handprint in the cement.

For recovery is just a process,
Belief is a lifetime.