My therapist once told me
I should try making purposeful decisions
a house shouldn’t be a hiding place
and happiness comes in tiny yellow pills.
I remember the day perfectly
because the winter in my bones was growing heavier
and I had my new yellow scarf wrapped around my neck
like a loose end, on a brink of collapsing.
She finally replaced the worn down sofa
I’ve been picking a part for a year now
and I remember the way melancholy
pulled at my skin, shifting uncomfortably
the smell of new, spreading through my every nerve like wildfire.
My ears were buzzing
tuned to the words hanged unspoken
in the space between her lips
the shaking of my hands not quite clear
beneath the certainty of change.
The folded paper sat heavy
at the bottom of my backpack,
my sentence cruelly served in blue-inked letters
Two weeks, I sat distracted
brewing tea in my small kitchen,
yellow pills in one hand,
a slippery self in the other.
Every night I took them
my legs buckled under waves of consciousness
heart pounding in my ears
trembling fingers reaching into ill-lit memories
for the me evading this body
that for so long I called home.
I’d close my eyes,
fear soaking trough my eyelashes
the room spinning out of control
drops of anxiety rolling down my spin
melting into the mattress.
The same mattress that hold my sanity in place
comforting this shell
without asking anything in return.
It didn’t feel right
the numbness that came with every sip of water
the way my name wasn’t mine anymore.
So I stopped going to the therapist…
After all, I sat better with myself,
than with the world.
Part time lover... 