You called me brave again
but I should tell you I sleep very little,
listening for footsteps, the soft click
of a key, a trigger,
though I know the deadbolt is on
because I’ve checked twice already
and we had the locks changed years ago.
Still I rise in the quiet to check nightly, pacing the hall,
watching them sleep with their lights on,
as we all still do.

You called me strong tonight
but the steady drip, drip, drip of everyday life
has worn my veneer thin and it takes
longer and longer every day to
step across that threshold,
open my self, open my mouth and speak.
More often than not, I’m struck dumb
with panic, doubt, mistrusting myself to make
even the simplest of decisions, constantly
checking my reflection to see
if the frayed edges are showing.

You say you look up to me
but I have to admit that
it is terrifying being this high up,
clinging to this limestone pedestal
that cracks and bends to every stiff wind.
I can feel it slowly crumble
beneath my feet, bits breaking off
under my fingernails as I cling,
not to stay on top but just hoping
I won’t fall down.

I look in your eyes and realize that
I can’t tell you any of this
now that I’m the poster child
of recovery, of independence.
Smiling, trudging on
hoping no one ever sees
how hard it is to stand alone,
how often I want to
climb down and smash that mirror.