Little Yellow Notepad Part 2
I sit in a room painted calm
where the chairs are soft
and the clock pretends not to watch me bleed
They ask gentle questions
the kind wrapped in professional warmth
as if pain might flee
when spoken to politely
I open my mouth
and ghosts fall out
Names
Memories with teeth
Moments that learned how to breathe
inside my chest
The therapist nods
pen scratching like a small animal
while I unravel years
in fifty minute increments
Time, rationed
Suffering, itemized
I joke sometime
dark humor as a flare gun
because if I laugh first
the truth won’t realize
how exposed it is
They call it processing
It feels more like excavation
each session digs deeper
until I’m not sure
whether we’re uncovering wounds
or teaching them how to speak
I leave lighter, they say
but light can be blinding
some days I walk out hollow
other days raw
wondering why healing
hurts like remembering how to feel
Still I come back
week after week
because somewhere beneath the fear
I believe this darkness
is not a grave
But a tunnel
learning where the exit is