Where My Ghosts Come Out to Play – Christine E. Ray

the room is tastefully decorated
respectful distance kept
between her desk
near the door
and the comfortable chair
I selected the first time
we met
now unanimously understood
as mine
my arms fold tightly
across my chest
hands 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 low
I watch the dust motes dance
in the weak sunbeams
in the open space between us
‘where do we start talking about the trauma?’
asks the kind voice across the room
the tightly barred door
that swings slowly open on rusty hinges
making a loud noise of protest
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
curious to find themselves exposed to the light
‘how does it feel to talk about this with emotion?’
without your usual detachment
not as if you are reporting the news?’
‘it fucking hurts’ I think sarcastically to myself
snapping the rubber band
she has given me to help stay grounded
harder and harder
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