One foot in the room,
I stare at recovery,
at peace, longing for
joy lighting their faces.
I haven't done so badly —
self-sufficient, quick,
able to talk out of scraps.
"Half measures" they call it
like they can read my mind.
Surrender they ask for,
to some nebulous god.
If I slough off my old life,
what have I lost?
Okay. I turn my back on
crushed dreams,
step forward,
willing for the door
to close
me in.
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