A sliver of light poured across my cheek, slipping through the curtains. Above me, two strings of amber lights twinkled in a cross. I looked up, smirked, and thought,
“X marks the spot”, before giggling to myself.


The walls glowed in emerald, lush as a tropical forest, alive but heavy after rain. I sat cross-legged in a bed of pillows so soft they nearly swallowed me whole, my little cocoon. Each pillow was stitched in a different pattern, shape, and hue, as if they had all lived different lives.


The notebook lies open in front of me. Pen, heavy in my hand. The blank page stared back as though it knew more than I did, as though it was waiting for something to hatch.

I thought to myself: 

You know, these pages used to be filled. I wrote sonnets. I poured myself into novellas, made lists of my dreams… Pencil to paper, and off to the races.

But now? Nothing.


Had “Corporate America” finally made me devoid of all—


A beep cut me off. 


Ope, she’s here. Better look happy.


My therapist appears on the screen. I’m clinching the note she gave me the last time we met. I peek in my hand - her handwriting is soft and round, inviting you in. She left smiley faces in the margins. Almost like she’s trying to soften the blow. 


Write about the first time you felt like your voice didn’t matter. 

***Bonus if it’s something you’ve never said out loud. 😀


The words blur. The smiley face distorts. Its grin is so wide, it's making me queasy. My mind is racing. 


I don't want to learn. 

I don't want to grow.

Therapy is stupid. 


This isn’t helping.  

I want to run - 

to crawl out of my skin - 

rather than write anything down.


Like ink would make it permanent. 

Trauma doesn't knock. It barges in. It doesn’t wait and ask, “Hey, are you ready to unpack this?” It just shows up. When you’re folding laundry or in the middle of a fucking therapy session.

Now - what once felt so distant, so far away, is suddenly right here. I'm nine again. Confused. Not because it hurt… but because it didn't. 



✤✤✤


Programmed with silence.

“Don’t tell…Don’t talk…Don’t ruin it.”

RUIN IT?

Ruin it for who? 

i don’t remember what “it” is. 

Or maybe i do and i don’t want to. 

that feeling?

i remember.

skin-crawling confusion.

“this isn’t right” 

before i even knew what “right” was.

infinite.

therapy. 

loop. 

this moment?

-the one buried deeper than the rest-

Seeps out of my pores

“Don't tell.”

i think of Them  

About what They knew,

how They knew

And it paints- 

-not in black and white-

but in every shade of gray

i won’t ask. 

i won’t bring it up. 

i won't reveal You. 

But maybe

Just maybe

They feel it, too.


✤✤✤