Therapy Bits

Some days I am a house
with all the lights flickering—
not quite dark,
not quite safe to walk through barefoot.

The walls breathe with me,
slow and uneven,
like lungs full of fog.

I make coffee and forget it.
I make promises and forget them too.
I write lists in the margins of old notebooks
as if order could be summoned by ink.

There is a noise in my head—
not a voice,
just a hum that grows louder
when I try to sleep,
a restless ceiling fan of thought.

People say, you’re strong,
but strength feels like a rope
I’m gripping with tired hands.

Some mornings I wake
and feel myself
slip away—
like a tide receding quietly,
leaving behind shells
and the shape of what was heavy.

Still, I return.
Every day I return,
to sweep the sand from the floor,
to turn the lights back on,
to live again
inside this trembling house.

Slip Away – Word of the Day Challenge