This is the white light you've heard about, the one you're supposed to see at the end of the tunnel.
This is the apology owed to you, the one you were begging for when they dragged your knuckles across the asphalt.
This is the fresh air filling your lungs, after years of spitting up water hoping to make room for it.
This is your reflection, the one you avoided by shattering every gleaming surface.
This is your favourite poem, the one you read every night like a prayer.
This is everything you wanted, everything you swore you needed to be better.
So why are you still picking at your bloody knuckles?
Why are you pretending you haven't memorized that poem?
Why won't you look your reflection in the eyes?
Why are you holding your breath?
Why won't you be better?