What was real

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and quickly, time cheated me out of every reason to feel okay.

I contemplated, many times more than I could count as I gazed back at the distance I had traveled to get here.

Truly, the road was familiar, I've been here before, only younger, and now I am as poor as I began, but surely, I remember having a mouthful, some laughs and some love.

But good dreamers know not to wake up right?

The dried up leaves did not scare me, I could deal with that, but the feeling was foreign, nothing I could imagine and I had lost sight of what was real.

Helplessly, I climbed, desperate, but with every branch I ascended, I bled, is this what withdrawal feels like?

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and eventually, pain became easier to carry.

You could see it in my eyes only if you looked hard enough, you could feel it with a touch if you held tight enough, and you could hear it in my laugh if you listened hard enough, but you could not tell me it was okay, because it was not.

Life gets prettier, I promise. But you, you get uglier and that's not okay.

25~9/1/1

Written while listening to “survive” — a YT music link if you care.

What's the safe word?

Help?

This is probably art, but what do I know?

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