You ask where I have been
and I finally tell the truth:
I have begun seeing a therapist
because I have taken to wearing my bones
on the outside. The therapist tells me
it’s all in my head and that injured birds
should not attempt to fly. You tell me
I do not need therapy and we will figure
this out together; you do not ask the
questions the therapist asks, like why
you do hide from the mailman? and how
do you feel about losing your favorite mug?
You’d think I’d be used to it by now:
the patterns we stitch around the house
so we do not accidentally touch.
But I begin to see a therapist anyway,
to wear high heels while I clean. I step
on ants with stiletto points.
This makes me feel large and powerful,
though still unusually sad.
originally published in The Rampallian, Volume 1, issue 3
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