I talked to my therapist today
for the 7th time
it was like the 2nd, 4th, and 5th times
where I felt and listened and talked and explained and felt
but it wasn’t like the 1st, 3rd, or 6th times
because I didn’t feel better
The 7th time was like the 7th time
It matched the circular stencil I trace
when I try to fix myself in my head
I was me during the 7th time
But something
had turned my volume down

The other times I wore a smile hard enough to make her think I’m kind and interesting  and okay like I do with everyone
This time though, I was being held by my brain like an ant in a glass box
And the heavy invisible walls of the glass box are like my emotions that make it harder to breathe sometimes
and I repeated a lot of what we discussed during the 1st, 3rd, and 6th times
not because I wanted or needed to talk about it again
but because it pokes a finger in that spot between my shoulder blades and whispers to me all of the things I want to change about myself
and so on the 7th time, i used my vocal cords to let those words out
so maybe they’d be a little quieter

These whisper words are the things I didn’t know about me until I turned 13 or 14
and I started to become a whole person
The whisper things are those small strips of adhesive in between the big pieces that make a whole person
like the parts of a special coffee mug that
was broken and got glued together, but will probably never really hold coffee again
it may look good on a shelf
or bring back a fond memory
when you see it tucked away in the cabinet
But it won’t ever function
the way it was crafted to
Because something broke it
And used cheap glue to put it back together

But this was only the 7th time
And I’m hoping
that by the 8th time, I can tell the ant to leave the glass.
I want to tell my breath to come and go as it pleases
And tell my back not to hurt
because it is a good back
and my lungs are good lungs.
And that voice that whispers
It isn’t my voice
But is the voice of broken coffee mugs.

Maybe I will believe it after the 8th time.

Springboarding
captured children,
locked in
vending machines,
like princes in the tower.

Swiping the barcode
imprinted upon their foreheads,
placing them in playpens
--free range, of course--
and listening to the stories
that caused them
to,
in this precise order,
fill,
spill,
chill...

To empty their lungs,
to rage against the machine
that first boiled blood
into the deflated veins
of their youthful tendencies.

Birthing a furlough,
for when
the wild
and profane
wish for scream time:

babes in the wood,
before figureheads to die for.

The
Amateur

The
Expert

The
Rookie

The
Aficionado

The
Freshman

The
Maestro

The
Dabbler

The
Craftsman

Poet

There's a place here
For everyone
With a passion
For words