i can't climb out
of the hollow.
small victories, they say,
take pleasure in them,
before they slip
through your lungs
like air that won't stay.
but everywhere i turn,
darkness throws a fit.
half a book done,
thirty days clean—
the kind of milestones
that make me feel... me.
instead
i sit like a ghost
beneath the frog’s ****,
waiting for tomorrow
as if it's a fresh start,
not full of uncertainty.
nothing happens.
i stare at the screen,
binge never have i ever
until my eyes bleed—
but it doesn't help.
nothing does.
heaviness lingers
like a secret kept,
as i wait for time to pass.
all i do is wait.
for a meeting,
for a friend,
to hold that ****** chip
in my hand—
all i do is wait.
not because i'm strong.
but because i'm so ****
tired sometimes
to let go.
this one is about the low days.
