In the shadowed corners of my mind,
where echoes linger—
fractured voices weave a tapestry,
each thread a memory,
a forgotten dream,
a scream that reverberates
against the walls of my being.
I am a mosaic of selves,
shattered glass held by whispers,
each shard a story,
each persona a guardian,
a reluctant soldier
standing watch over ruins.
There’s the child,
still clutching tattered toys—
her laughter like shattered glass,
crinkling, breaking,
wishing for a time
when ghosts didn’t dance
in the periphery of her joy.
And the warrior,
wrapped in armor woven
from splintered fear,
who battles the darkness,
the memories that curl like smoke,
tainting the air with the scent of ash,
and yesterday echoes, echoing,
a constant reminder
of the war that rages unceasingly.
The others stand in silence,
flickers of light and shadow,
sometimes friends, sometimes foes,
each face a reflection of the pain,
a balm, a blade, a sanctuary,
but never quite whole.
Time collapses,
days blend into nights
like watercolor bleeding on canvas,
and here I am,
damaged yet alive,
cradled in the arms of my own chaos,
an unfinished painting,
still searching for the strokes
that will bring me back to one.
I carry the weight of every trauma,
each one a stone in my pocket,
a reminder that healing is
not a straight line,
that to be broken
is not to be lost, but to be
an intricate puzzle,
with edges smoothed by understanding,
every piece a testament
to survival—
to the resilience of a heart
that keeps beating,
even in the depths of the shattered.
So here I stand, in this tangled web,
where identities intertwine,
where I gather the pieces,
let the light in through the cracks,
and learn to walk
on this tightrope of being—
damaged yet whole,
a beautiful chaos,
a melody of voices
that sing into the night.
Therapy Bits 
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