Therapy Bits

I sat in the doctor’s office,
a folder full of words laid out like verdicts—
Dissociative. Complex. Post-traumatic.
Labels pressed against my skin
like name tags I never asked to wear.

They tell me I am fractured,
a house of many rooms,
doors opening to voices that carry
the weight of old storms.
They tell me my body remembers
what my mind tried to bury—
every echo carved into my bones.

But I am not just diagnoses,
not just a chart in black and white.
I am the silence between the echoes,
the tender breath after the storm,
the resilience of roots that grow
through cracked concrete.

Yes, I carry identities that shift and shimmer,
yes, I carry scars that speak in their own language—
but I am more than what they call me.
More than the binding of my records,
more than the ink of their definitions.

I am poetry in motion,
I am a constellation with hidden stars,
I am a name still being written.

And though they try to box me
in their narrow lines and labels,
I will always spill beyond them—
a living story, unfinished,
a chorus of selves that all belong to me.

RDP SATURDAY: LABELS