therapy as mixed metaphor

First we create a place, with a gate, where you are safe.

This is your yard. You and I are a marble jar,

building something solid;  a foundation for the house of you.

Then we begin, tracing the cord back to the wall to find the cause,

shining a flashlight into the dark corners of your mind; We find

your brain, a filing cabinet crammed haphazardly with misplaced memories.

This is spring cleaning. Now we are peeling the onion,

please don’t apologize for crying.

We have stepped outside the box, your comfortable bubble,

dipped our toes in to your deep end. No diving.

Your trauma is a series of tributaries, rivers navigating their way

back to a sea of tenderness.

We are fishing that river, throwing back the thoughts you caught that no longer

serve you. It's like pushing a balloon underwater

watching it rise up;

Buoyant and unrelenting.

Emotions can't be contained this way. A glass case always breaks, eventually.

Your anger is the tip of this iceberg, underneath everything thaws

and you are left with a soggy pile of dog shit

or

it’s Pandora’s box, cracked open and overflowing,

Impossibly tangled as the roots of your family tree.

And now we are digging.

But instead of burying this,

adding bricks to the backpack you’ve been carrying,

another stack to the plates you are spinning-

You are feeling, fighting your way out

of this cocoon to change. You are blossoming.

This is the final broom sweep, the missing puzzle piece

This is the armor of your heart unhinging, ever so slightly,

to let love in.