"If Scars Could Dream"

[A poem of The Dark Side of Recovery]

"If scars could dream, they’d dream of night—Of heavy dark, not blinding light.

Not perfect peace or clean escape,

Just softer air, a gentler shape.

They’d dream of sleep without the screams,

Of silence free from burning seams.

Of rooms where no one knows your name,

And nothing begs to feel the same.

If scars could speak, they’d speak in low—Like wind that hums through things let go.

They’d talk of mornings hard to face,

And healing done at crawl, not pace.

They’d say the hardest part is this—The world expects a tale of bliss.

But some survive, not rise or mend—We carry weight that will not end.

If scars could write, they’d write in bone:

Still breathing, yes, but still not home.

No finish line, no curtain call—Just standing up to face the fall.

They’d mark the nights you tried to climb,

Then sank back down and called it time.

The prayers you choked out just to sleep,

The endless promises you failed keep.

If scars could dream, they’d dream of rest—Not joy, not love, just second best.

No saving light, no gallant end—Just one more breath you didn’t spend."

When I stopped chasing recovery like a finish line—and started seeing it as a steady light, not a spotlight—I finally learned to breathe. To show up without judgment. Some days, just being is enough.

[Spencer Brooks Otto - 2025]