Therapy Bits

Some mornings break like brittle glass,
light too sharp for trembling hands.
The mirror hums a wordless tune—
I barely stand, but still, I stand.

Thoughts arrive like storm-blown crows,
black-winged, loud, and cruelly near.
They peck at peace I try to grow
and nest their lies inside my ear.

A smile’s a thread I stitch with care
across a face that hides the ache.
But silence knows what’s buried there—
a tide that pulls, a breath I fake.

Each step I take is slow revolt
against the weight I can’t define,
a quiet war without a halt,
a rope grown thin from too much climb.

Still, in the fray of noise and numb,
I find small anchors in the day:
a hand, a song, the setting sun—
they hold the shadows, keep them bayed.

So let me be both scar and spark,
both broken wing and rising flame.
I’m living through the long, dark dark—
not shame, but strength shall be my name.

RDP Sunday: fray