not sorry

it took a fuckin’ minute,
and i’m sure i’ve said it a million times since then,
but i finally feel good again.
i mean-i’m not sorry i’ve repeated myself,
i had to crawl before i could walk,
i had to see the light before i could feel it,
and i needed hope before i could embody-
that in fact i am ok, i’m alright.

i just needed to walk a while before i could feel the ground.

you know it’s hard to adapt to the mundane,
when for a solid year your cortisol was through the roof,
nervous system activated like charcoal,
drawing every poison to the surface,
forcing me to flush it all,
and you know what.

i am fucking proud, i regret nothing.

because the fact that i can sit here to write notes of poetry at 6am and not feel lonely is a goddamn miracle. because what they don’t tell you about being smothered to near death, is that you’ll miss the pillow that was suffocating you in the first place. you’ll miss the people who were hell-bent on pushing it down and you’ll miss the places that left you breathless.

you’ll have to learn to appreciate full breaths again.