Therapy Bits

Truth rarely knocks—it slips in through the cracks you forgot to seal.
It breathes in the silence between a slammed door
and the hush that follows,
in the way your spine stiffens at laughter too loud,
in the mirror when you mistake stillness for safety.

It does not wear a name you can spit out
like bitter seeds from your tongue.
It lives in the marrow,
carved in the fine print of your bones
by hands that should have only taught holding,
not harm.

You learned to build cathedrals out of caution—
every prayer a calculation,
every breath a blueprint
for how to make yourself small enough to survive.

Years pass.
You learn how to speak without apology,
how to eat without guilt,
how to hold your own gaze.

Some days, healing is a warm cup,
a soft shirt,
a room with the door open
because you no longer need to hide behind it.

Some nights, it’s a storm:
memories rising like floodwater,
your younger self knocking, not truth this time—
but her,
waiting with broken shoes and wide eyes
to be let back in.

And you do.
You open the door.
You wrap your arms around her
like no one ever did.

You tell her—
it wasn’t your fault,
you were never too much,
you were always enough.

She listens.
And so do you.

And the cracks become seams.
And the seams become light.

Reena’s Xploration Challenge #391 – Creative Experiments and More