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.