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.