Therapy Bits

I leave the room without moving,
a quiet exit through the back of my eyes.
The clock keeps talking,
but its language can’t reach me here.

My hands belong to someone helpful,
efficient, kind—
I watch them like birds on a wire,
knowing the shape of flight
but not the wind.

Trauma lives in the body like weather,
arriving without asking,
changing the forecast of memory.
Some days it storms in fragments,
other days it is only fog,
soft enough to walk through
while still getting lost.

I divide to survive—
a careful mathematics of breathing.
Pieces learn their jobs:
one to feel, one to function,
one to keep the door closed.

But somewhere beneath the quiet hum
is a different movement:
integration, slow as thawing ground,
parts inching closer
without erasing their names.

I am learning to stay
when the mirror flickers,
to sit with the blur
until it remembers me.

This is not a clean narrative.
This is my story,
stitched from pauses,
from returns,
from the brave act of coming back
into a body that once felt unsafe—
and choosing, again and again,
to be here.

FOWC With Fandango — Integration – Facts, Fictions & Fantasies