i didn’t even like my therapist.
but when i got the message today,
“i’m resigning from my role here,”
i felt a pit open in my stomach
and swallow me whole.
i didn’t particularly like her,
but she knew.
the shape of my sadness,
the thoughts i only say when i’m tired.
i gave her a map,
half truth, half lie,
and now she’s tearing it to shreds.
i’ll sit across from someone new,
say, “i guess it started three summers ago,”
even though it started long before
i ever said it out loud.
like how at eight,
i worried about the size of my thighs.
or how
i’d build wild theories
if my mom didn’t come home on time.
they’ll ask,
“what do you want out of this?”
and i won’t say:
to not be broken.
to not have to explain.
i’ll lie,
just like i always do.