all the things that don’t make sense but align with how recovery feels

scooping out the pieces of egg shell that somehow broke into the bowl despite the perfectly planned tap. a break shattering into countless pieces. do you throw out the eggs and start over? what if there are no eggs left? ignore that the recipe calls for them? spend your time picking out the fragments in hopes you can destroy any evidence about the incident? deal with the sharp remains and lie? they watched you break the egg and know what you’ve done. you could tell those around you to be careful, although it is inevitable a piece or two will slice open their tongue. can you look away from the blood despite knowing it’s from your own hands? everyone will hear about your mistakes. they will probably stay far away from you and your disastrous baking.

tying your tongue with cherry stems. choking on pits and swallowing them whole. suffocating in silence. this used to be fun… who could tie the most knots in the shortest amount of time. you never were scared of drowning in the beautiful fruit, now you fear you won’t be able to stomach cherries again. will you ever be able to breathe without the fear of forgetting how? be able to enjoy the flesh and spit out the pit?

people are laughing and you keep asking what the joke was. no one answers you. they grow and you shrink. maybe there was no joke? maybe the joke is you. but what if you’re invisible? no one sees how hard you are trying to grow.

lacking the ability to write poetry. how much longer can you write about your dying garden? how much longer will they care? you’ve been replanting and digging the soil so long your fingers are are stained with the work you’ve done. when you disappeared they didn’t notice. when you came back they called you dirty. they see al the soils and stains but don’t visit to see all that is growing underneath. there are no more thorns disguised as roses. they don’t care because it is no longer pretty.

hating lemons. lemons used to be sour but you disguised them as art. romanticizing that you could handle the burn. finding new ways to use lemons. it consumed you. you thought that you could never stop. now lemons are sour and lemons are fruit. you don’t like lemons, you push away the color yellow.

hanging up on god. you used to believe in them. praying in circles hoping the syllables would bring a light back into your soul. burn marks on your knees from the carpet that didn’t forgive. bones cracking and callouses forming from your hands glues together. destroying yourself but no one saving you. now the only person you answer to is you. building a sanctuary in your own body, rebuilding all the broken foundation and rewriting the scripture. praising and loving the skin you’re in until you finally believe it.