Rest

I've always been good at struggling,
Fighting, trying to find the will to live.
The girl who was always striving
For a fair chance to make a score.

Yet now that the fightings stopped
And the bag has been lifted from over my head
Why am I finding life to be so empty,
So plain, so dull?

Perhaps it's because I had never planned
What I'd do once I got back on my feet,
Or maybe now I am forced to reflect
On the person I am or who might be.

I'd like to believe that it's just because
I never had the option to rest before.
Either depression, or anger, or dysphoria,
Or worst of all poverty...
Maybe it's because these things controlled me

And today I am finally free.
I am finally me.

But why do things feel so empty?

Submitted on my phone by someone who hasn't written in probably a year.