Like a bird,
You are expected to regurgitate your past
to watch it be picked apart in the beaks of others.
You are pressed for facts:
In ratings of trauma,
And the number of nights spent staring at the ceiling since it happened.
You are a magician pulling knotted scarves from your throat.
Trying your best to perform as they wish.
But at the end of the scarves,
With a thud on the desk,
Falls your hollowed out heart.
Advice you gave yourself:
Breathe as if you are about to blow out Birthday candles.
Take down some notes
To never sound like you know what you are talking about.
(Even though you are talking about yourself.)
To be grateful.
So very grateful to receive an appointment after six months waiting.
So very grateful to have your words contorted and spat back in your face.
Grateful as you fight back tears in your plastic chair.
Grateful, grateful, grateful that you got the pleasure of crossing the threshold,
To have your self esteem evaporated.
Grateful, even though there are websites that will answer you better.
Oh so grateful
Even though the doctor is stalking like a cat
and smiling like you don’t have a clue.
Grateful as you take your heart back home in soggy scrunched up tissues.
Grateful when you get in the car and scream
Because the knots are caught in your throat
You couldn’t get the memories out.
To make them understand.