Therapy Bits

I wake with ghosts
pressed into my ribs,
the old voices turning over
like stones in a restless river.

Some days the past leaks through cracks
in the walls I built,
flooding the floor,
pulling me ankle-deep into yesterday.

I try to sweep it away,
but memory has claws,
hooks buried under skin,
snapping back when I pull too hard.

I walk around shattered,
pieces of myself jangling in my pockets,
pretending the sharp edges
don’t cut me with every step.

It feels like living with smoke, I am an emotional wreck—
I can’t catch my breath,
can’t breathe it out,.

Sometimes I wonder
if healing means erasing,
or if it’s learning to carry the wreckage
without bleeding every time.

And so I sit here,
open palms trembling,
holding all the broken glass of memory,
waiting for the light
to find a way through.

FOWC With Fandango — Wreck – Facts, Fictions & Fantasies