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.