my brain walks around in just its socks.

It picks up pine needles in the back yard

and clears a space for my happiness. G and I laugh

and read our poems until the sun sticks

to our teeth. N tells me to read

from the Big Book of AA when I feel numb

or doubtful. I’ve found a home in myself, finally.

I nest myself in the arms of my bedsheets

every night, and realize that suicide

now feels like a cringy song I used to sing

in middle school. The lake laps towards me.

I breathe into the lungs of my past self.

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