Written after a therapy session, where the belief that all this was real, that I was a woman, came to the fore.
Epiphany in Quiet Hours
In softened light, the therapy room gleams,
A space of whispers, half-forgotten dreams,
Where words, like threads, are tenderly unspun,
And shadows gather, drifting one by one.
Upon the couch, she speaks of nameless pain,
Of restless nights, of storms without a name,
While through her chest, a tremor softly calls,
Like distant echoes in a hallowed hall.
But lo! Mid-sentence, truth begins to rise,
A quiet spark ignites behind her eyes—
Not sorrow's weight, nor fear's relentless reign,
But something deeper, shining through the strain.
Her voice falters, then steadies with the sound
Of self, once hidden, now at last unbound.
"I see it now," she whispers, breathless, still,
As if the words alone could bend her will.
The mirror of her soul at last made clear,
Not broken, but reborn—her form sincere.
No longer bound to shadows of the past,
She finds her truth, and speaks her name at last.
Her voice, now softened, blooms with tender grace,
Each syllable a step toward her embrace,
Of self, of womanhood, of long-lost peace,
A dawning joy that bids her pain release.
And though the world beyond may yet seem cold,
Within her chest, a brighter fire takes hold.
Oh, gentle hour, where heart meets soul anew,
Where masks are shed, and all that's pure and true
Emerges, like a blossom in the spring,
Her journey starts, and she begins to sing.
For in that room, in silence soft and deep,
She wakes from dreams, no longer bound by sleep.
