Therapy Bits

The night is long, and silence hums with fear,

Each sound a thread that pulls the past to mind,

Where memories break through like splintered light,

And wounds once hidden beg again to speak.

I breathe in deep—this body not a home,

But still, I claim it, every restless hour.

My thoughts uncoil in each unguarded hour,

A rhythm struck by pulses made of fear.

The heart forgets how to return to home

When haunted by the shadows in the mind.

I write, I scream, I sit with ghosts who speak—

The only comfort left: this fragile light.

I find my path by following the light,

Though some nights drag me back, minute to hour.

The stories I could never bear to speak

Rise sharp and sudden, wrapped in grief and fear.

I trace their roots, untangle from my mind,

And stitch new symbols into what feels like home.

It’s hard to name a place that feels like home

When pain becomes your language more than light.

But healing is a current through the mind,

A river wearing down the stone of hour.

Not every thought can bloom beyond the fear,

But still I try—each whisper I now speak.

A therapist once told me how to speak

To younger selves who never had a home.

I closed my eyes and held the hands of fear,

Imagined warmth, a touch, forgiving light.

I wept for them, for me, for every hour

I silenced pain to tidy up my mind.

And now I plant soft gardens in my mind,

And sit with friends who know just how to speak.

We share the dark, divide the heavy hour,

And build between our stories something home—

Not perfect, but it shimmers in the light,

A quiet space untouched, for now, by fear.
So when the mind stirs echoes born of fear,
I speak with care, and let the smallest light
Guide me through the hour—toward my home.