Same Pen, Different Me
Chantal Johnson


For a long time, recovery was an island. It was green with newborn discoveries, lush with my prophecies of future self-love. I existed bright (finally), but isolated.

I bloomed for one. I bloomed alone.

Recovery: my island, my freedom, my safety, I became too big for just your land.

My recovery transformed into a metropolis. It was rumbling underground, beeping and buzzing in traffic jams. I existed dimly (fuck), but hustled.

Hustle, hustle, hustle, hard.

Hustle, hustle, hustle. Hard.

Recovery: my city, my struggle, my strength, I’m burning my flame for your fire.

My recovery is a mountain. It’s volcanic in me, quiet with strength. I exist (YES), I continue.

I bloom.

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