the loudest parts of recovery happens in
the quietest corners of bedrooms.
witnessed by nobody and nothing but
that poster from childhood,
the bed with its tangled up sheets –
the sliver of 3 am streetlight from curtain cracks.
there is no trophy or triumph,
only the beating of the heart
thrumming pulse
steadied breath.
that’s all there is,
folded between the silence of four walls.