By PRIYANKA VORUGANTI
I read my poetry to my therapist on Mondays
to fill the silence
to answer the questions
to tell her
No, I am not taking my meds.
I want to tell her that her profession is a joke.
That if I could
I would grab all the elasticity in the room and make a makeshift hair tie
So she wouldn’t always have to tuck that strand behind her left ear.
I am never not trying to be
Whatever she wants me to be.
I am always failing, flailing around fucking dudes and sobbing on the 2.
I am the perfect patient: always sick, never been better.
She says I have a problem with self-image.
I want to scream
it is not enough to just dazzle
Her face, when she says I know it’s hard
I know she does not know.
I know she has spent her whole life trying to know living with the guilt of not knowing
In moments like these I want to spit on her.
How are you today?
Okay. I saw something weird outside your office.
Yeah. A moving man. Like one of those guys who moves furniture into your new apartment.
What was weird about him?
He didn’t move.