Therapy Bits

The room is quiet,
but my mind is a crowded street—
voices honking, shadows crossing,
memories that refuse
to walk in straight lines.

I carry the weight of storms
that never make it to the sky,
lightning coiled in my chest,
rainfall behind my eyes.

Yet here, in my hand,
a pen—
slender, steady,
a bridge between chaos and clarity.
I press it to paper,
and the ink learns my language:
fractured, trembling,
sometimes fierce, sometimes soft.

I write the ache
so it will loosen its grip,
I write the fear
so it no longer hides unnamed,
I write the fragments
until they resemble a whole.

Every line is a breath
I thought I had lost.
Every stanza,
a reminder that I am still here,
living alongside the illness,
but not swallowed by it.

Through my pen,
I become both wound and healer,
both storm and shelter,
both silence and song.

FOWC With Fandango — Pen – Facts, Fictions & Fantasies