Healing

Sometimes I think I’m healing.

I’m better,

I don’t feel anxious.

My friends can tell.

It feels

good.

I talk to boys, and I laugh hard.

I wear what I want.

Nobody knows

I am a new person.

Sometimes I think I’ve done it.

I go to therapy less,

I sleep more;

the couch looks inviting,

so I nap.

But sometimes when I’m home,

I remember why I left.

Why I wanted to drive until I couldn’t,

until my hands stuck to the steering wheel

and I met the red horizon.

It feels

bad.

I wear items that aren’t me.

Too tight.

Too loose.

Don’t perceive who I am.

Please.

The couch is a war zone -

I don’t have any guns.

My scalp gets itchy,

my acne flares up,

I need more therapy,

But I was healing.

Sometimes I think I know myself.

I’m familiar with the concept of me.

I don’t look for anyone to understand,

because they don’t have my shoes.

Very uncomfortable shoes.

But people ask,

so I tell

met with the same “oh.”

They don’t know how to tie

the laces.

Losing friends,

missing lovers,

why can’t I just lie

and smile

and say “I’m healing.”

“We’re better.”

They think I have nothing to heal from.

I don’t think I’m healing.

Sometimes I flinch when doors get shut,

I won’t volunteer information,

it feels

protective.

But sometimes I make progress.

I moved back home

I moved out.

I’m in a place where nobody knows me.

Nobody has to yell,

nobody wants my power,

nobody tries to tie my laces.

It’s progress.

Sometimes I think I’m healing.

I have an order in the chaos

that I shouldn’t have to be in.

But I write,

and I’m honest,

and I mean everything.

Sometimes I think I’m healing.