Reading & Writing

Poem Number Six: My Therapist (A Prose Poem)

pexels-photo-404155.jpegMy therapist is about twenty and still believes in romance and unicorns and thinks the world is blue cotton candy so I sit on my hands when I talk to her and chew the inside of my cheek till it’s bloody and try not to rain down my acid pain except maybe drips and droplets because I don’t want to melt her, can’t imagine making her bitter when she’s just so sweet and rounded with flowers and even her voice is honeyed and can’t possibly understand that some cherries are sour some fruit withers on the vine some people will never be happy whether they chew or swallow the pills whether they exercise or buy the prettiest blouses at H&M and feel great about paying less for more out of small hungry hands that can’t protect even themselves against the darkness that comes out and snuffs the fluorescent bulbs and she clicks her computer like hey this isn’t right and the monsters wrap round her but she doesn’t feel them though they’ve ripped up her stockings and devoured her shoes and she says, Have you read YES PLEASE by Amy Poehler because that book will seriously change your life.

 

 

 

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