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My Therapist
My therapist asked me to describe pain. “It tastes like metal,” I said—like the tang of blood you can’t spit out,the kind that lingers at the back of your throatlong after the wound is made. It smells like raintrapped in a room with no windows—damp, heavy, refusing to leave. It sounds like a door closing…
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How Much More?
Hmm… tell me—how much more of myself must I spillbefore you notice the mess I’m drowning in? How many nights must I trade for morningsthat never bring your warmth?How many breaths must I hold backso you can keep breathing easy? Tell me,how much more of these tearsmust I wastefor my cries to finallyreach your ears?…
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THEY SAY I’M BLIND
