Alexithymia
I meet it in the quiet eyes—
a storm that will not name its rain,
a body fluent in distress
while language stands apart in pain.
Emotions move like shadows crossed,
their edges faint, their colors dim,
a childhood taught to still the waves,
to silence joy, to cage the limb.
Perhaps a parent’s frozen face,
perhaps a trauma’s early vow:
“Don’t feel too much, it isn’t safe”—
and so the self forgot the how.
The cure is neither fast nor neat—
it’s naming what was once concealed,
through patient talk, through art, through touch,
until the numbness learns to yield.
We teach the heart its mother tongue,
to read its pulse, to find its rhyme—
and gently, word by word, restore
the lost music of feeling in time.
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