Freud is on my
shoulder, his beard tickling my neck.
When I peer at him,
my glasses slip and I can’t see clearly. He’s my friend, my confidante, my
admirer.
I can conquer fear,
his words dancing whispers in my head.
He says it’s okay.
He says it’s normal.
I believe him. I
know there’s much to learn.
He is reassuring
with his degrees, he is wiser than me. He understands my fears.
They are the
precise fears he’s studied. He’s educated. Experienced. He’s helped so many
before me.
I feel lucky. Lucky
to be alive.
I let him talk to
me. I let him advise me. I let him.
No
His feet dangle and
hover over my left breast. His loafers tap absently.
I can see the
truth.
Conquer fear, he
says.
He shows me the
truth. He doesn’t sugar coat it. Tread softly no more.
I try. I try but my
glasses fell off. I can’t see what I fear.
He urges me to try.
He urges me to see. He urges me.
I’m trying. I’m
trying. I swear I’m trying.
No
I let him see me
cry. I let him see me. I let him.
He shifts in the
crook of my collarbone. I feel a small crack.
I ask him questions
now. I ask questions.
He says it’s okay.
He says it’s normal.
I don’t believe
him. I know, I learned.
He coos and
caresses with words. So many words.
I can’t be studied,
he says.
I feel lucky? Lucky
to be alive?
Lucky to feel this
life.
No
It’s easy to ignore
one voice when another sings.
Freud is on my
shoulder, his beard tickling my neck.
When I peer at him,
my contacts stay in place.
There are maggots
crawling in his beard.
