My counselor asks;
my reply pours out of my chest,
along with a waterfall of tears,
in a very cartoonish stream.
Irony feels like a wise option,
but sometimes I can’t hold on to it –
just as I can’t grab onto my words.
I become the unwilling vessel –
of angry letters and sounds;
they fill the journey of the murky hours.
My bedroom grows small,
my breath abandons my body,
even as I desperately try to swallow –
my scream, my thoughts, my memories.
I ask my counselor, Is this the end of me?
She shakes her bright head,
This is how you cope,
This is how you survive.
So, I gather all my shattered pieces,
and I acknowledge my pain, my anger, my loss;
Along with the strength hidden within.