Recovery

I count the days.

They drag on into weeks,

Then months,

Then years.

(I hope.)

I count the days.

Every Monday marks a new week,

Another seven days of control,

Another 168 hours toward freedom.

I count the days on glass fingers.

They are fragile,

Easily broken.

It would take just one moment to shatter them,

One instant of weakness,

One second of lost control.

I count the days,

Fearful of their end,

Terrified of when I inevitably give in to temptation.

I can feel them wearing at me.

My resolve wavers and trembles,

Bending beneath their weight.

I count the days,

Longing for the day when I no longer need to,

Wondering if that is even possible.

Until then,

I count the days.