Therapy Bits

some mornings
the air feels heavier than it should—
like it’s pressing down,
trying to remind me
that I am still here
but only barely.

the mirror flickers with ghosts,
shadows of moments
I never meant to remember
but can’t forget.
the sound of a door slamming
still makes my pulse
stumble.

I breathe—
once, twice—
as if the inhale itself
could patch the cracks in me.
but my hands still tremble
when the world grows too loud,
and the silence that follows
is even worse.

I try to speak,
but my voice
seems to waver
like a candle in wind,
thin, uncertain,
half-afraid of its own light.

some days
I pretend healing is a staircase
and I am climbing.
some days
I sit on the step I woke on
and call it victory.

because even if the world
doesn’t stop shaking,
even if my chest
never quite learns peace,
I am still reaching—
and that is something
like hope.

RDP Thursday : Waver