It is not a shiny thing,
a room full of coffee cups
and the shakes
and the voices of people telling all the same story
just wrapped up a little different.
it isn’t easy.

they come in and out
and you pray to the higher power you created or discovered or whatever
to please, please don’t let that be you
just for one more day. just today.

you white-knuckle that shit at first, though.
you’re the one in and out,
the one who makes the people with more than a few days
remember. really remember
how it felt
to not know how to feel.

and the ones with the time,
they thank god it’s not them,
and they do what they can,
and they hope that you get it before you die.

these people,
these people with time
[that you think must be lying, cause who can go years without their vice]
they’ve heard the sad news and they’ve been to the funerals.
they have seen and they know
and they see you, and cling ever tighter.

and maybe you see them back,
and you try to hang on, too.
relax those white knuckles, just a little bit.
try to believe in their belief. try not to drown.

then you’re writing.
you’re writing all the damn time,
and you’re powerless,
and stepping,
and now you have to admit
how much you’ve fucked your life up.
you’ve done a horrible job at just about everything.
but that’s alright,
cause you’re gonna start over,
you’re gonna learn all about yourself.

addicts love that,
we love ourselves.
just usually a more curated version.
so now you learn the truth part.
you keep writing
[and petrify yourself by saying the slogans all the damn time]
and sit in rooms with people you come to love.

you love these people,
the ones who suffer and smile and hug you hello.
you are them,
you know that now.

and even in the middle, there is peace,
like the center of a wake trailing behind a boat.
you just avoid the edges.

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