Therapy Bits

Some days
the world tastes caustic—
not bitter,
not sour,
but acid on the tongue of my thoughts,
etching grooves into
once-smooth certainty.

I wake to static
buzzing behind my eyes,
like a broken screen
trying to form a picture
of who I used to be.

My body forgets how to move with grace.
My hands tremble,
not from fear,
but from too much remembering.

There is no villain here,
no dark stranger in the hall—
just my own mind,
peeling itself back
layer by layer,
like paint
that no longer believes
in the wall it was meant to protect.

The smiles I offer
are not lies—
they are translations,
bad ones,
from a language only I speak
in the quiet moments
when no one is watching
and the weight of being
presses through my chest
like a stone cathedral.

Some days I survive
not by strength,
but by surrender—
by letting the current take me
past the sharp rocks,
eyes open,
breath held,
believing that even the river
must run out of teeth eventually.

And when night comes,
soft as an apology,
I count my ribs
like steps down a familiar hall,
whispering my name
until it means something again.

This too,
is a kind of living.

FOWC With Fandango — Caustic – Facts, Fictions & Fantasies