don’t know who I’m trying to convince when I say I am trying my best

I’m preaching to the choir when I recite this hymn in the mirror

But I do not always believe her

Or a part of me chooses not to

So part and parcel with recovery is disbelief

Disbelief that I am still here

That I am still the same skin and bones as before

Only older and maybe a little more looked over by my own hands

Tired hands and a self-reflexive tendency to jeopardize my own stability for the sake of a story

What is the goal here

I ask myself when I examine my own hands

Hands that pull all their favorite triggers and then ask why the bullet holes always feel like coming home

I guess I am always just trying to come home and end up stopping short of my exit every Sunday morning

Stuck on an unending highway of self growth I don’t know if this is progress or pride

Time tells me I am in a better lane

That these clothes fit a body that knows its own dimensions but this body has been a liar before

So I do not trust my triumphs

I only question their purpose

And let fragility and impermanence dictate the story

So I am never truly healing

I am only calling back home to the same wounds I never dressed

And I am undressing these unlovable threads

Unwinding the tapes

Marrying two wet fingertips on these flames

I am still no good at saying sorry

To this body

But I know I am good at


Calling it off

Coming back home to this familiar silence

Every time I begin to believe I can love an echo

For what it is

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