Therapy Bits

one day my story will be over
but today
the pages still turn,
ink running like rainwater
through the cracks of my past.

I have carried entire cities of memory
on my back—
rooms that echo with voices
I tried to forget,
shadows that learned my name
before I learned it myself.

trauma is a language
I never wanted to speak
yet it spills from me
in nightmares,
in tremors,
in the hollow pause
between heartbeat and breath.

mental illness made a map
out of my skin—
I wandered it in circles,
fingers pressed to walls,
not knowing which door
led out
and which door
led deeper in.

sometimes I drift above myself,
watching my body
like a stranger on a train,
the world muffled,
colors distant,
like a painting underwater—
dissociation
becoming its own kind of gravity.

anxiety blooms quietly
in my ribs,
a garden of thorns
that no one else can see;
I have learned
to breathe between them,
to reach for the few petals
that still grow.

but healing—
healing is not a single act,
it is a slow dawn
coming through blinds
you forgot to close.
it is self-love in small spoons,
a quiet hand pressed to your own chest,
saying: I am here. I am real.

and hope—
hope is a whisper
that starts like a tremble
and ends like a hymn.
it tells me
I am more than what hurt me,
that recovery is not a straight road
but a path lit by my own footprints.

one day my story will be over,
but until then
I will write it in light,
in softness,
in every breath that carries me
back into my body.

Weekly Prompts The One Day Prompt (17 ) – Weekly Prompts