Healing Isn’t Pretty

My healing doesn’t look like candles.

It looks like the bathroom sink at 2:11 a.m.,

toothpaste crusted on the rim

like I’ve been arguing with myself in foam.

﹁﹂

It looks like a laundry pile

I keep renaming “tomorrow,”

shirts turned inside out,

a sock missing like a tiny mystery

I don’t have energy to solve.

﹁﹂

Some days I meditate.

Some days I stare at the ceiling fan

and count its slow, lazy lies

It spins, it spins, and nothing changes.

﹁﹂

I text “I’m fine” with one thumb

and pick at a hangnail with the other,

blood beading up

Small drama, small proof I’m here.

﹁﹂

I delete old photos, then re-open them.

I hate that part.

The heart is a stubborn little dog

dragging a leash through every room.

﹁﹂

In therapy I say “boundaries”

and it sounds like a clean word,

But at home it’s messier

me saying no, then shaking after.

﹁﹂

Tonight I rinse my face,

water cold as honesty.

The mirror fogs, the day smudges.

Not pretty—still, something loosens.