Therapy Bits

Some days I drift outside myself,
a ghost wearing my name,
watching my hands move through water-thick air
as if they belong to someone braver.

The world blurs at the edges—
voices echo, colors dim,
and I fold into the quiet spaces
where even my thoughts feel borrowed.

Depression sits heavy,
a stone on the chest
that teaches the ribs to ache
with every breath they dare to take.

But still—
some small spark, stubborn and trembling,
keeps whispering beneath the weight,
“Don’t quit.”

So I gather the scattered pieces,
the dim ones, the cracked ones,
holding them like fragile stars
until they remember how to glow.

I walk forward, even when the ground dissolves,
even when my footsteps feel unreal—
because hope is not a burning torch,
but a flicker you protect with both hands.

And I am still here,
learning again and again
that surviving is its own kind of art,
and every dawn I reach
is a masterpiece.

RDP Sunday: quit