I sit on her couch and hold the purple pillow with velvet circles in my lap... I look around at the paintings, the clock... I look at her looking at me... I start to unravel cuz thats why I'm here... but as I watch her... the common nod and agreement of therapists, I wonder if she can help me, if I can help me... I look at the sketch pad, the word unwanted written in bold orange, the circle and squiggles of color surround this word... the haze of gray that covers it all... unwanted ... the word I first think of the word I attract again and again, the gaping hole in the pit of my stomach, will I figure it out this time... I feel vulnerable like I"m still licking the wounds of the last 6 months and a bit frozen at the thought of jumping back in, walking on egg shells and coiling back from the lashes of words " you're to free with you humor" What the fuck does that even mean, yet it tears the skin and punctures my heart... I'm tired of reaching, of taking the brunt of others insecurities of being the back up or afterthought, the one who holds space, but when I need holding your arms are too tired... unwanted... its like the undying current that I need to change the tide....
This is the poem
This is the poem that opens the door, the wild one, the free one... the poem that gives permission to be vibrant ... to not hide. This is the poem that won't let me cower and instead gives me courage and makes my lips smile, it gives me colorful tastes in my mouth and laughter lines by my eyes... it gives permission to really be me, and let you be you.
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