Basement Points

I woke up lower than yesterday,

didn't know that there was room.

Thought I'd already found the bottom,

then the bottom found a basement too.

Curtains stayed exactly where they were,

coffee cooled beside the bed.

Nothing broke, nobody called me,

nothing happened.

That was worse instead.

I kept waiting for a reason

to put both feet onto the floor.

Funny how you miss the chaos

when the silence hurts you more.

No sirens.

No disaster.

No dramatic final scene.

Just another ordinary morning

with no idea what I mean.

I'm lower than yesterday,

lower than I thought I'd go.

Not falling anymore—

just learning how far down can grow.

Lower than yesterday,

nothing left to prove or save.

I used to fear becoming nothing.

Now nothing

feels almost brave.

Everybody loves recovery

when recovery has a song.

Nobody films the twenty mornings where you barely move along.

No grand lesson in the mirror.

No revelation in the rain.

Just brushing teeth and breathing

like those things deserve a name.

Maybe healing isn't climbing.

Maybe sometimes it's the chair.

Maybe victory is staying when you don't particularly care.

I'm lower than yesterday,

but I'm still somewhere somehow.

No sunrise breaking through me,

no heroic promise now.

Lower than yesterday,

but the heart keeps keeping time.

Maybe I don't need to conquer this.

Maybe today

I just survive.

I don't need somebody telling me

the valley makes the mountain sweet.

Sometimes valleys are just valleys.

Sometimes pain

is just defeat.

And maybe that's okay tonight.

Maybe I don't need the lie.

Maybe staying here until tomorrow

is enough reason not to die

inside.

I'm lower than yesterday.

Fine. Let yesterday keep score.

I don't owe the world a comeback every time I hit the

floor.

Lower than yesterday,

but tomorrow hasn't spoken.

And I've learned the strangest thing: You can still be here while

broken.

I'm still here.

That counts.