Therapy: poetry recap

Sometimes thoughts get in my head and I can’t get them out..

Sometimes thoughts get

In my head

And I

Can’t get them out.

Sometimes I

Can’t get them out.

Get them out.

Get them out.

They get stuck.

Trapped like a fly in amber.

Preserved for future generations to test




Stuck in a rut.




Alexa, how fast can a heart beat before it explodes?

Alexa, how many deep breaths do I have to take before I can breathe normally again?

Alexa, how much does anxiety weigh?

Alexa, if anxiety weighs nothing, how come my shoulders feel so heavy?

Alexa, how come?

Alexa, how?

Sometimes thoughts get stuck in my head and I can’t get them out.


This is a sign of healing, he says,

As I’m sobbing in his office.

As he whispers through teary eyes, you’re worth it.


The more vulnerable I am, the more suicidal I become.

The years of being told I’m not worth it bubbling up to the surface.

A volcano of trauma.


What are you thinking?

I don’t want to be here.

I know, I can see the distress on your face.


What’s your favorite color? Pink.

How many things are pink in this room?

I can see that your healing.

Feeling everything is a sign.

Some days I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread. I’m so tired: physically, mentally, emotionally.

I can see that.

It’s ok not to be ok.

Muscle Memory

You know the way your hands remember how to tie a shoe?

The way your legs remember how to ride a bike?

The way your fingers remember how to find the letters on a keyboard

Or the notes on a piano?

Sometimes my wrist remembers where I used to slice it open.

My body feels empty but my wrist

My wrist starts stinging–

A sharp reminder that I don’t have to do this anymore.

Muscle memory

Sometimes I wonder if organs remember trauma.

If cells store memories like a bank, passing them on like inheritance from one generation to the next

A family story passed down over the years.

But like all stories, dis tor ted over time.

A game of telephone with your own life.

It happened this way.

It happened this way.

It happened this way.

Memories refracted and reflected as you wade through the ocean of trauma, pacifically.

I’m afraid of healing. Afraid of feeling. Because healing means feeling and I’ve been numb for so long.

Numb is safe. Once I felt too much and tried to numb the pain with pills

Testing gravity to see if








Was the only way down

I’m afraid that if I kept telling my story,

people will stop listening, walking the l i n e between “too much brokenness” to be comfortable and “too much healing” to be exciting.

All I ever wanted was to be


I whisper. So I don’t have to apologize for stepping on cracks.

Muscle memory

The way my brain attaches on to a thought and doesn’t let it go

The way I always manage to find my way home

Despite getting lost in my thoughts and using a map that ends with trees

Muscle memory

The way I remember to say I want to live despite a part of me screaming out

No you don’t.

Muscle memory.

The way I remember to breathe

Calm my


The way I remember to exist in a world where I’ve tried to be invisible for so long.

Muscle memory.

my cells have passed down my trauma over the years. My brain reacts when there’s nothing to react to

Red alert when there’s no danger present

A Bomb shelter in the midst of peace

Muscle memory.

One day they’ll pass down the story of healing


I’ve made it this far.

Your body wants to keep you alive. Skin regrows. Blood cells attack. Bones heal.

Memories fade.

muscles can be retrained.

Waiting for me to say:

It happened this way.

Yeah. But it didn’t end that way.