Healing, at last. 

 

Tonight, my heart radiates a comfortable heat 

within and between my ribs, 

pulsing 

with every beat. 

 

When my chest swells, 

like heated gaseous particles  

expanding in their container, 

pressurised to bursting — 

 

... I have a perverse desire to let it. 

My conscience craves and loves, 

this emotion is a drug,  

I ride the highs: 

desire 

and passion 

and triumph. 

 

Yet I remember the Before, 

capital B: 

The world was blue and then grey, and the darkness froze my weary soul. 

 

Too long was I under, 

the trip a sick and twisted 

spiralling need for  

control  

and beauty  

and perfection. 

 

God, I could have died. 

 

… 

 

And so, I fought. 

That’s all. 

 

Language can only convey so much. 

(I can only bear to recall so much) 

 

But, oh,  

when it gives way. 

 

— 

 

I feel warmth.  

I was too self-destructive to let myself have it then. 

But it is this spark, this calefaction, that makes me realise 

I’m really healing. 

 

And I think healing 

(Yes, healing, at last)  

looks beautiful on me.