THE HEALING PROCESS

When I hit the floor — I hit hard.

It's painful — it never feels good.

I usually don't get up for awhile —

not until I realize no one is

there to pick me up.

Drugs — maybe. A joint? A shot?

I'm trying — I'm failing —

I'm dying from the inside out —

like termites eating —

eating me like a 2x4 on the ground.

Then I made a friend.

I'm not smoking nor drinking.

I'm healing.

The puss is gone — the blood has dried.

I made another friend. — a good friend.

The blood has been washed away.

I'm seven months sober.

The wound has healed —

the gauze is gone —

skin returned to it's natural state.

There are still problems, but when I fall again,

at least I know I have someone to pick me up