She sits there her book full of latent codes,
a way of communicating so no-one knows
Rambling on my life, traces of a history unread:
a mind full of trash and misdeeds unsaid.
She's a pristine therapist, who hasn't lived,
expecting me to say all and give,
when I couldn't give a shit about her plan.

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We sit, splintered against skin:

Hieroglyphs spouting complex symbols

From untamed mouths; bodies

Perspiring pits, dropping brows,

Salting welted wounds;

Trying desperately to be brave,

Behave in ways we have always been seen,

Glean the truth of who we are,

What we’ve become,

What we do, what we’ve done;

Wrestling Rottweilers,

Unmeshing masquerades,

Be...

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