Therapythey speak of depth and contrast and emotionTherapy3 years ago in Free Verse
without knowing what the words mean.
you can't analyze a broken heart on a torn sleeve
by poking it with a stick and watching it skip a beat.
TherapyWhen I see ghosts they look perfectly real and solid -- like a living human being. They are not misty; I can't see through them; they don't wear sheets or bloody mummy bandages. They don't have their heads tucked under their arms. They just look like ordinary people, in living color, and sometimes it is hard to tell who is a ghost.Therapy3 years ago in Short Stories
CHRIS WOODYARD, Invisible Ink interv
"Anne, do you feel safe here?" the therapist asks. "Come on, talk to me."
I don't like him. He's white as a sheet with splotchy skin and dark rings under his eyes. He looks like the ghost of a scarecrow wearing a suit with that long body of his. Like someone took him and stretched him out like play-dough.
"Anne, is there anything wrong?"
I hug Sharebear close and bury my face into his soft fur.
Dr. Scarecrow taps his yellow nails repeatedly on the arm of his chair.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
"Come on, Anne." Daddy rubs the small of my back. "Tell Dr. Cole about the things you see."
Daddy's looking at m
Therapy HourI shouldn't tell you this, my therapist saysTherapy Hour2 years ago in Free Verse
but I think that you need to hear it.
He's decided, but it's still a question,
a consideration that's mine to make.
I should have heard the quake in his voice
but I trusted him too well.
I ask him if we should switch chairs, and he smiles,
adjusts his seat, folds his hands, one over the other.
He breathes in, like he's about to jump, and says,
I haven't spoken to my father in over twenty years.
You know the story, he says,
my father was a good man that
fell out of love with my mother, and
Moved away, tried to stay connected but
it wasn't in him to hold on and fight the distance.
Years passed by like this but without warning
He can't recognize his child from the man I'd become.
We fight, out of love and frustration,
and we fight, out of pride and irritation,
then we stop fighting because we stop talking completely.
And without warning,
my therapist stops being my therapist.
He becomes a man,
Then a child,
and finally a mirror.
He regrets the
the therapy office.today you told me a million timesthe therapy office.5 years ago in Free Verse
i was worth more than i thought,
the lines on my arms meant anxiety,
& drugs should ease me out.
you said my body was cold
& my head was achy,
& not to show my bones
sheaths of skin.
it was like you loved me,
only i knew better.
it was then
you told me my goals were
too lofty & i was driving myself
here is where i hoped
to prove you wrong,
to be thinner than the spaces
between a boy's fingers
(the spaces meant for me)
to be two numbers instead of
to wear convex patterns
beneath my skin to tent it into
what i mean is i'm sorry
because i am not ready to silence
the thunder in my gut;
to let the paths of guilt and beauty
fade from my arms;
to be beautiful and perfect
therapy.she is oh so fragile, made of pretty pieces of shattered glass and shards of clouds for eyes. she can sing her little heart out and tell you a story that you'll want to hear, while holding your heart out to the light you're sure she has. she will tell you she is strong, strong and true until you hold her under the blue blue light to find out for your self and then you will see the cracks and fissures and fractures that mean the end. she is oh so sweet until you unwrap the layers, one by one by one and then you get to her center and find something bitter and jaded jaded by time and doubt and regret.therapy.5 years ago in Stories & Vignettes
she is oh so fragile, and one would think she would have broken by now and scattered herself into a million little pieces of colored dreams.
'hold on to me. don't let go. i don't know how to stay together now.'
questions left un
awful tastes hang
ing in the air.
there is something, no, somethings that i want you to answer for. that i want to know how