Therapy Bits

The Hours Refuse to Close

The ceiling hums with silence,
a taut white canvas stretched too thin.
Every minute scratches its claws
against the glass of my awareness.

I count the shadows—
four in the corner,
five along the dresser—
all of them waiting, restless
as I am.

The body begs for surrender,
but my mind loops in crooked circuits:
unfinished sentences,
half-remembered voices,
the echo of a clock I unplugged
hours ago.

Sleep lingers outside the window,
a neighbor who forgot my name.
I watch her drift
from house to house,
closing other eyes
while mine stay wide
like two lit windows
on an abandoned street.

By dawn,
I am stitched together with static,
a ghost rattling in daylight—
the night still burning
in my bones.