I walk slowly,
not because the ground is broken,
but because my body remembers
what it means to fall.
The air tastes cleaner now,
though some corners of memory
still smell like smoke.
I stitch myself together
with uneven threads—
small rituals,
quiet breaths,
the kindness of hands
that once felt foreign.
Fabric gathers where the tears were,
not seamless,
but strong in its honesty.
A patchwork of survival
is still a garment.
I do not look for the person I was
before the fire.
I stand in what remains,
and let the light
find its way through the seams.
Therapy Bits 
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