Afterward

Is this called healing?
It doesn't feel like it.
It feels like breath being ripped
from my lungs
before it can settle.
shallow.
Meaning scraped thin,
given away
without the strength to care.

Is this called healing?
It doesn't feel like it.
It feels like waves crashing into a shoreline,
never-ending and furious,
continuing on,
And on.
Grinding years into seconds.
Dragging the shore backward,
grain by grain.

Is this called healing?
Sometimes it feels like it.
Distractions begin to work.
The voices are quiet.
I can breathe.
But then I see a particular color,
or hear a certain song,
and feel guilty for forgetting,
even for a moment.

Is this called healing?
It'll never feel like it.
But one day I will turn
and realize—
The beach is far behind me.
The ocean's roar
is only a whisper.
No longer does the sand cling to my skin.

Is this called healing?
The memories will remain.
I will remember that pain.
But it is just that:
A memory.
The ache dulled
like a week-old bruise.

What hurts the most
is that the joy dulls too.