I arrive carrying
The small reliquaries
Of my survival
Objects so ordinary
They almost disappear
Yet somehow they hold
The pieces of me
I’m still afraid to touch
The therapist sees them
But doesn’t name them
They let me place each one
Between us
Like quiet constellations
Mapping the shape
Of my trembling
A hoodie softened
By years of retreat
A chipped mug
That remembers every winter
A keychain
That once belonged
To a braver version of me
These are my anchors
My soft spoken guardians
The things that keep me
From drifting too far
Into the cold rooms
Of my own memory
I wrap my hands
Around the mug
Feeling its warmth
Steady the places
My voice cannot reach
These help
I whisper
And the words feel
Both fragile and holy
A confession offered
To the quiet
The therapist nods
As if they understand
That healing is stitched
From small rituals
From the gentle weight
Of familiar things
That remind me
I am still here
Still choosing to stay
And for once
I do not shrink
From the truth
Of what I need