16,819,680

“let’s unpack that”
but it’s too many boxes
the cutting knife lost its edge
and I’m allergic to letting go

“let’s talk about this”
But a session has 90 minutes
And ‘this’ is 16,819,680 minutes long

It’s “where do you feel that in your body?”
But I can’t tell.
my bones are too wet
There’s no space for my skeleton to breathe
Muscles clinging to it too much

“Can we sit with that for a moment?”
No.
Because why.
Fuck you
Fuck that
I’m done sitting
I’m done giving moments
They got all the moments
It’s me who went under

It’s me who is still under
Who’s lost in the mess
Stuck in forests one day
My ribs a cage for something the next
It’s me who sits at my own bedside at night
When the sleep demon strangles me
Wearing my skin like its his
Flesh-colored throw-blanket and
Upside-down smiles in the flicker of a street lamp
outside my window
Like the knocking that isn’t there
And the voices
The steps

“Let’s hold space for that”
Because the 90 minutes are up
my bones are still too wet
And my face isn’t

“Do you feel it in your body” he asks again
And I sit with it for a moment
And unpack it
And hold space for the question and the thought that comes up
A small little box
One I don’t need a cutting knife for
And I talk about it:


If I squeeze my lungs out like a wet cloth, what color would the water have?

---

---