Truth Bullets

I looked in the mirror and saw Marla in a kimono:
Kohl-rimmed eyes from the night before
a dissheveled Amy Winehouse up-do
framed my stark, emaciated face.
The shower ran a stream of rust at first
over the splotchy porcelain
and a Right-Wing talk show echoed down the cluttered hallway.
The mirror fogged so I didn't have to see her.
"Healthy," the voice said.
"Happy," the voice said.
I chuckled eerily, wondering how I could possibly portray those adjectives today as the warm bullets hit my sticky skin.
Pearl earrings?
More blush?
Teeth whitening gel?
A water bra. Yes they will think I'm gaining weight.
Weight is happy.
I clung to the handle-bar of the shower cell in some kind of exaggerated agony
The anger that comes with knowing I should be fine
And that I'm still not fine.
Twenty-dollar bill neat in my wallet
Orange juice and bagles in the kitchen
The electric heat
The warm water
The love
The music
The ever-present numbness persisted.
Old scars that begged to bleed,
Old fiascos that craved revival,
And the desire to feel and live at the brink of my potential:
To soar and laugh, to dream and watch those dreams materialize.
To no longer accept familiar pain as an excuse to feel.
To no longer accept addiction.
To no longer run around a hamster-wheel with wrecked-up people.
The numbness: When just surviving was no longer enough.