there are days i remember clearly,
ink and bold lines.
the day after i told my mother about my depression,
eight months ago now,
my best friend and i sat on a swing in the front yard of someone i no longer speak to.
the last time i let my wrists bleed,
three months ago now,
staring at the ceiling.
the day i wrecked my life,
three years ago now,
screaming, slowly tearing apart what i once had.
the day i found out that my poetry actually meant something to someone,
two years ago now,
and fuck, it still makes me so happy.
the first time i realized everything was alright again,
seven months ago now,
pointing at houses i'd like to live in and telling them about places i'd like to go.
the day i realized i rebuilt myself,
four months ago now,
laughing with the people i love.
//
lowercase intended
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
