“Am I allowed to be angry?
Tell me, and be honest,
am I allowed to feel?
‘Cause every time I open up,
your problems are a little larger.
And every time you complain,
I suffer a little.

I am not your therapist,
whose advice you don’t take.
I’m your friend.

Am I allowed to be angry?
Tell me, and be honest,
am I allowed to feel?
‘Cause when I let my anger
out in retaliation.
You are a little angrier.

When will I be allowed to be human?
When won’t I be a punchbag anymore?”

A.V.

Another year, another therapist.
Beginning at the age of 7 and not stopping ever since
Each therapist stealing a bit of my trust
Soon i start making up people to not just stay quiet

Scared of exposing my secrets
The failed attempts in achieving perfection
Or at least what 12 year old me thought was perfection.
The addictions, thoughts, experiences

All locked inside me
To only come out to strangers passing by
And taking the information with them
Keeping their mouths shut.

I was floating in honey.
The viscosity of the substance
Made it so that, while I still needed to work
To keep my head afloat,
I had a little extra support.
So I didn't have to do it alone.
And it was good.

But my temperature began to rise.
I became too hot too fast, and,
Because of my actions
I started to destroy the beneficial parts
That the honey needed to remain useful and healthy.
So the honey reacted:
Threw my melting self out of its jar.
I tried to jump back in
But the honey firmly ******* its lid back on,
And my charring fists
Fruitlessly pounded on the boundary
The honey had erected.

Then as my body and brain burned,
The other honey jars disappeared-
Distancing in acts of self-preservation.
I knew how I could get my temperature
Back to baseline.
I just needed a little help
So I could work to get back to my normal self.
But my actions had pushed away what I needed.
So I accepted the fate I had caused,
And allowed my body to fall to ash.

Suddenly you transformed
Into a broken mirror.
All of the ugly, fragmented shards
Of my soul
Staring right back at me.

I.
my lips
sewed together
with perfectly stitched thread
through thin needle holes

the wounds
still wounds
not healed
over the years

the daily torture
of wanting to speak
but not being able
to tell


II.
my hands
shaking
excessively clinging
to the thin rubber band

my voice
trembling
as i try to unwrap
one syllable after another

the aching in the throat
as i try to describe
in as little detail
the things i went through

III.
as soon
as the words
left my mouth
almost as silent
as a short breath

i leave
the room
you sitting there
trying to grasp

what i had just coughed up
and disappeard
directly after
realizing i actually did

IV.
i am nowhere
and everywhere
at once
i am there again

you try to unwrap
the tangled words
the things unsaid
the thoughts not spoken

i slip out of reality
and suddenly
i hear you say
loud and clearly

"It was not your fault. It never was and it never will be."