Fractured Light

The mirror shows a stranger's eyes today,

Though they've been mine for years I cannot count.

The therapist speaks words that ricochet

Through corridors I never knew about.

"Dissociative," she says, the syllables

Like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

Identity—not one, but several—

Each guarding secrets in their sacred space.

The blackouts weren't just stress or lack of sleep,

The clothes I'd never bought but somehow wore,

The names that friends would call me, buried deep

In memories that weren't mine anymore.

A child's voice whispers from behind my thoughts,

While someone braver steps up to the wheel.

The protector who through darkness always fought,

The keeper of the pain I couldn't feel.

I am a house with many rooms inside,

Each tenant with their story, rage, and fear.

What seemed like madness was where others hide

When I could not survive what happened here.

The shame dissolves like morning mist at last—

This isn't broken, just a different whole.

A constellation born from trauma's past,

Not fragments, but a multifaceted soul.

Now I learn each name, each voice, each part,

The system that kept me alive somehow.

Integration isn't tearing apart—

It's learning to be "we" as well as "I" right now.