Where My Ghosts Come Out to Play

The room is tastefully decorated

Respectful distance is kept between her 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

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

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

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”

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