Where My Ghosts Come Out to Play

the room is tastefully decorated

respectful distance is kept between

the desk near the door and the

comfortable chair that I decided

the first time we met will be mine

arms folded tightly across my chest

hands in unconscious fists

the small table next to me holds

kush balls and engraved stones

with reassuring words like hope and peace

and a box of tissues that I do not like

to need

the art on the walls is soothing colors

mostly abstract compositions

except for the print of  colorful umbrellas

that rests on the floor against the small

filing cabinet

this is my favorite

she keeps the office lights dim and I watch

the dust motes dance in the open space

between us

 

where do we start talking about the trauma?

asks the kind voice across the room

where do we start? I ask myself

and the usually tightly barred door that

swings slowly open on rusty hinges

that makes a loud noise of protest

(or maybe that’s me)

is the door labeled “loss”

and my ghosts start to emerge from that

cavernous space one by one

until the room is full of transparent

shapes standing around us

curious to find themselves

exposed to the light

 

how does it feel to talk about this

with feeling?

without your usual detachment

to not discuss this as if you reporting the news?

it fucking hurts I think sarcastically to myself

snapping the rubber band she has given me

to help me stay grounded

with increasing force against the

tender skin of my wrist

and then force myself to stop

under her concerned eye

reminding myself that I really

do not want to keep hurting myself

being my own worst enemy

inflicting my own wounds

 

 

10 thoughts on “Where My Ghosts Come Out to Play

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