Healing they sell.

Sunrise bleeds into sunset

and night and day become an ugly grey

one that doctors label “worth fighting for”

and now I find that I can’t draw the line between hell and real life

through a haze of crimson.

Fuck.

Somehow,

I always end up here.

in rock bottom’s cellar

with the lost cases

the irreparables

with a shell of myself (Cracked shell)

I don’t belong here.

 but the metal doors stay locked.

The doctors don’t know

I once built a home in the stars

above the raging storms

even got a fake ID for “Recovery Queen”

joined the cult of healing

with bitches who vomit laughter and clichés

into a bleeding graveyard of their buried demons

with tombstones they paint in glitter & self care quotes

like con artists.

but we call that healing.

and my therapist says

“recovery isn’t linear”

and I hate that bullshit

because when I stumble

they say “Oh you’re a cutter”

and I try to convey

the months of artistry

and painful abstinence

of using stupid skills

to replace God itself

(my razor blade)

but they roll their eyes at aged scars

like it never healed

they blink away my stardust

a portfolio of perfect days

of perfect recovery

of playing the part

like it never even mattered.

“Recovery isn’t linear”

but when the line curves you’re out of the game.

 So tell me again what is this healing they sell..

a game of artistry?

intricate fabrications of happiness and peace?

of drowning in coffee after

fighting shadows hugging my touch-starved body

eyes blinking through stupid clock cycles

like magazine pages?

of makeup to cover the bags

because my stubborn eyes don’t flinch

at night

cuz my mind holds it breath to protect me from spirits

that chase the battered recovery queens

under the moon’s discretion?

Tonight my thighs are burning, and sick little me, it makes me smile.