29 Days

It’s been 29 days—  
29 mornings where I wake up  
without shame choking my breath,  
without a hangover pressing against my skull  
like a cruel reminder of failure.  
But God, I miss it sometimes—  
the numbness,  
the soft erasure of everything  
that hurt too much to carry.  
It calls to me still,  
a gentle voice with sharp teeth.  
"Come back," it whispers.  
"You know I’ll hold you better  
than hope ever could."  
And I almost believe it.  
Almost.  
Because there are nights  
when my skin feels too tight  
and memories claw at my chest.  
I stand in front of the mirror,  
staring at someone I barely recognize—  
fragile, yet holding on by threads  
woven from sheer will.  
This isn’t the first time I've fought this war.  
It’s the fourth, actually.  
Four rounds of white-knuckling through withdrawal,  
of crawling back to a clean slate,  
only to stain it again.  
But this time feels different—  
or at least I need it to be.  
29 days isn't forever,  
but it’s a beginning.  
It's choosing life,  
even when death seems softer.  
And if I fall again—  
I hope I don’t,  
but if I do—  
I’ll get up.  
Because I’m tired of living  
like I'm already buried.