entry picture

-Would you feel better

          if you had a label?


I probe the air with my left eye, spy

socratic poker face with my right -


she can't see me, just case notes;

I, unidentified, somewhere between


the sighing beige of the walls

and the dirty carpet, stained


with confessions, some sharp enough

to draw blood, others hollow and


unyielding. She tells me that I

have a lot to be thankful for


while I count the brown bricks

outside, each one an exiled breath


and the cadaver of wounded trust

makes a morgue of the coffee table.



mental healththerapy

I'd Be Queen Of Myself (if I weren't anti-monarchy) ►


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