Trauma Therapist

One man to be all men, 

a father, brother, and a friend. 

His hand on her back

is the determined heat 

and pervading warmth

of summer.


One voice to be all voices

that she never heard.

His quiet phrases, 

tenderly dosed,

sucked to her core

like the frantic gulps

of a newborn.


One hour to be all hours  

that she never had.

Each offer he makes,

warm tea, dim lights,

a blanket with stripes,

passing her pens

and self-worth.


Each week, one hour, one voice, 

one man to trust. When flashbacks

race up limb and lung as wildfire,

before the child combusts,

one man to breathe in smoke

and hear her scream.

Published by sarcasticfringehead

I'm an adult survivor of child abuse who documents therapy; a yellow brick road to hell.

4 thoughts on “Trauma Therapist

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