Therapy Bits

In the quiet hours,

when the world holds its breath,

I sit alone,

a canvas painted with scars,

each stroke a testament to the battles fought,

the turmoil that fell like a storm

through a once wild heart.

Deep within,

tribal echoes of trauma whisper,

memories jagged as shattered glass—

sharp reminders

that survival is an art,

each day a bold brushstroke

against the canvas of pain.

My story unravels,

a tapestry woven with threads of despair,

yet beneath the weight,

the roots of hope unfurl,

spiraling upward,

craving sunlight,

longing for healing’s embrace.

PTSD hovers like a ghost,

but I am not merely a shadow,

I am the flame that flickers,

inherent resilience echoing in my veins—

a wild song sung

by those who refuse to be defined

by the darkness that once engulfed them.

So here I stand,

a survivor, unshackled,

learning to dance in the aftermath,

to let the jagged edges smooth,

to let pain teach me grace,

and in the depths of this journey,

finding fierce beauty

in the heart of the storm.