I brush my fingers over the suede couch,
Making shapes and wiping the slate clean,
With a swipe of an open palm.
And your pen clicks as you-
Observe and write and observe again.
And the silence filters through,
Because my feet tap to a forgotten rhythm.
And you sip on your tea as you watch-
Me struggle to find the appropriate words,
About how it once kept me up at nights
How I couldn’t meet anyone new without panicking,
How my thighs will always be proof,
How cathartic a release crying in the shower is,
How no one knew, how no one knows.
But I’m better now, I promise,
This is really only a formality,
This is only so I can be at peace
No, no, I don’t need this
It’s just a blank checkbox
And when I’m home, hidden away,
I’ll tick it, and forget, and go about my day.
After a brief moment I pull myself together,
Uncross my ankles, bring my hands to my lap,
So you ask me to open up
And talk about my feelings
But how can I discuss this
Without giving away my best kept secrets,
Because being in a room with you-
Alone; for a painfully slow hour
Does absolutely nothing for me,
Because I’m not in the habit
Of explaining my poetry.