I’m taking control, making changes.
Some for the worst, others for the best.
I don’t like to evade or retreat.
My secrets are inconsequential.
I’m taking things into my own hands
- I kissed my therapist. On the lips.
Life is but a game of ‘Smash or pass’
and I hate waiting for ice cream.
“I like the way you move,” he said, “I like your skin.”
“It’s what people notice first” I admitted, “want to see it?”
Or maybe I dreamed that - I dream about him, sometimes. shrug
I think the helpless, astringent, professional intimacy fires me.
I want him to ask me about my jerkwater *** life, he has a concomitant
passport, but he never does. Isn’t that important - what about Freud?
What do you think you inherited from your parents? He asked.
“What a question!” I observed, “You mean genetically?”
“Come on,” he prompted, and I thought for a long minute.
“I have my mother’s impatience, her drive to succeed
and her thick blonde hair that seems to dry instantly.”
He nodded, indicating he liked where I was going.
“I have my father’s eyes, his flashing temper and flat chest.”
He chuckled, but I could tell he wanted me to stay serious.
“Then there’s my Stepfather (Step), he taught me humor,
patience and self-control - oh, and how to drive.”
He ****** on his pencil eraser and nodded.
He always blurs the line between performance and approval.
.
.
Songs for this:
Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay
The Spot by Your Smith

I swear
There’s nothing wrong
With me.
I swear
I am alright

I swear
I don’t need
Therapy.
Swear I haven’t
Lost my sight.

I swear
The voices are
My own,
And my will
To shun is strong.

I swear
That I’d be
Left alone,
If I listened
To their songs.

I swear
My grasp
On reality
Is flawlessly
In tact.

So why
Is it
That in my dreams
My thoughts
Can hold me back?

Why is it
That when
I blink
My dreams begin
To speak?

And why is it
That in my
Brink
The voices
Start to leak?

I swear,
I swear,
It isn’t true.
I haven’t
Lost my head.

I swear,
I swear,
I never knew,
I way,
I can’t be dead.

I swear,
I swear,
I’m in control.
I never
Let them even sigh.

I swear,
I sear,
Trust me, I know,
That why I
Almost never cry.

my therapy session was 15 minutes longer than was expected
my therapist was really getting a lot out of me today
even after all these years
when I’m forced to really dissect myself
it’s so uncomfortable
I never cry in front of people
not on purpose
I didn’t today but I felt my throat get tight and my eyes burn a little while words came out of my mouth this afternoon
I think I twisted the black pen in my hand so hard I gave myself a burn
I was trying not to make it obvious that I was bothered
breaking yourself down is vulnerable and feels unnatural when you’re used to no one asking you about yourself
he says the word acceptance a lot and talks about trying to have a more positive inner voice
I see his body slump in a way that’s like a sigh when I agree… but have to add a but…

You take your time to write yourself a muse
Upon the brittle branches in the August sky
Colours of lilac and violet dance across the sky
The sun settling in the distant end of the earth
You write the stories of the world you lost
The world that could have been upon yours
And I write to you in moments of hurried frenzy
And blissful fragments of fragility that laid its self across my body
The August sky,
You take your time to be as such
And the bottle of wine across the line of glasses that sat on the dinner table
How can one not feel younger in the presence of being loved
Of walls that to be brought down from being guarded for one to long of a moment
A moment that became a lifetime all the August months ago
A cold August it was, to dance around fire embers in the hopes they’d touch your heart and you could be as one in the flames

Truly believed sentiment.
Before my *** hit the velvet couch
And the tears fell
And fell
And fell.
For the entire session.
See you next week!

Reaching for a clue
Whilst I strain my back
Forced to retreat
To remain intact

Trust, it whispers
So fresh it chills
Its alluring essence
It borrows and steals

Takes baggage from me
Releases the weight
Now finding my balance
In this new found state

With space been created
Brings roots to access
What ones are supportive
What ones are a mess

Slowly with ease
I remove rotted roots
To find new earth
To grow now what suits

Suits this way of being
Planted with pride
With healthy foundations
I take my first stride

Into the unknown
The great abyss
As I freefall, surrender
Not a moment to miss

In this present presence
My canvas stays blank
As I wait for arts landing
These new roots now sank

Genetically predisposed to be overtly critical of everything
while also severely hindered by crippling social anxiety.

I've never been to therapy
nor a psychologist
not even a mystic-
and I know the last one's probably  
a fraud: but the effort is, at least, somewhere near
sincere.

Adjacent, perhaps.
 
I might even be riddled and rotted
through and through,
by the experiences that have shaped
my soul
yet I know-
that I still know nothing
at all.

If there's truth to my reality, and it's not some story I've concocted,
then the reality is that I am simply me, and I have certainly NEVER...

been to therapy.