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And now: the mic drops
Yesterday I went to a new therapist.
She was nice, I guess,
even though her name is spelled weirdly.
She's nothing like my old one,
or the one before that,
or the four before those.
When I told her I don't sleep all that well
she assumed I had insomnia,
and I didn't argue with her because
It was too early to tell a stranger about my nightmares.
They’re normal to me though.
Like I don't know what I would do without them,
in the same way an ocean loves pollution,
Or like how America needs Trump
nightmares who aspire to be like an addict consuming my drugs,
it’s normal ;
they're nightmares about someone
I fell in love with over a year ago
who says they will never hurt me,
but has broken my heart too many times
and yet I am still in love.
About 5 therapists ago,
I was told that I crave sadness
but I don't think that's true,
I crave the love and attention that I so desperately deserve
because I am nice and I am not always a prude
and I try so hard to be the best I can be
for someone who will appreciate me.
I crave happiness, so why am i a slave to my sadness?
I crave to be brave, but my heart misbehaves,
and I crumble to the ground because my name is Pompeii and I am ruined.
I didn't tell my new therapist any of that.
And when she asked me what I eat
I listed a whole bunch of things that I bring to school,
but end up throwing away
because I feel too fat to eat anything.
I didn't tell her that I stand on my scale every day,
obsessively alternating between wanting to lose weight and wanting to gain it.
I didn't tell her how
I am almost as in love with my bones as I am with the sky,
but I don't want to be too weak to carry a gallon of milk.
How my sunset bruises are art to me
Like a constellation of contradiction in my mind and on my body
Painted by the ghost of Frida Kahlo.
She asked me if my heart was racing, I said yes.
I didn’t tell her about all the clocks I’d consumed
Wanting to get rid of time
So I wouldn’t have to meet her.
My anxiety is a dream:
Dreary reality eating all of me.
One therapist ago, I stopped wanting to kill myself,
which I told my new therapist.
I didn't tell her that I wouldn't mind dying,
when she asked me what I drink,
I said little to nothing,
she told me to drink 10 bottles of water a day.
My heart was pounding and my hands got sweaty and my back turned cold.
If I drank that much in one day,
would my body drown itself?
Would my centimeters of skin cave?
Would my ounces of flesh and horror abandon my torso?
I thought, "Well maybe that's a good thing."
Then I yelled at myself,
because I know I don't want to hurt myself
and I don't actually want to be hurt in any way,
but habits don't go away.
Maybe that's why I'm still in love.