You, the therapist,
tell me to imagine my uncontrollable urges,
shame, and despair
as reptilian demons lurking
below the ship that I sail across
an unknown sea with no land in sight.

I tell you that the demons are me,
many-headed and armed with unlit torches
that search for fire underneath my skin,
inside my veins.

I dig my nails into my chest,
trying to claw out the shame that sits on my heart
like a cinderblock.

There is no ship, there is no sea,
there are no heavy planks below my feet
to separate the humanness from the monstrosity
that twists my insides into red-hot twine
and bruises my skin so easily,
like it was meant to be.

You, the therapist,
cling to your metaphor with an iron grip.
I, the monster,
try to claw out of my own skin,
but I do not have a map,
and I cannot imagine your sea that leads
to the promised land
because my eyes are turned inward,
searching for blood to tame the shame
that burns in me.