room to heal, to grow

short, silver hair.

she was sitting across the room,

legs spread apart, open, sensual charisma,

a sex therapist stereotype.

i’d been crying,

telling her that they would always come after me,

after i’d slammed my door shut.

she described to me

this relaxation technique-

“the internal room” that no one can enter

without an invite.

i closed my eyes:

flowing, organic lines,

no sharp corners.

walls in subtle rainbow pastels and earthy tones that gently blend into each other.

big windows with open, cream-colored curtains, fresh air, light, and warmth

streaming in from all sides.

rich, golden oak floor, warm beneath my naked feet.

a hardwood bed with white linen bedding, neatly folded.

a cream-colored woolen carpet.

my small, cocoa-colored sofa and a wooden stool beside it.

a woven basket with my knitting projects next to some stacks of books.

nothing more- just some space, room to breathe,

room to heal, to grow.

the smell of sunlight- sweet patchouli, beeswax candles.

in one open window,

a set of wind chimes dangling,

dancing delicately in the breeze,

creating tranquil sounds.