The first time a doctor examined me,
He picked apart my brain
And tried to see
what was going on beneath the words
I’d written on my lips.
“I’m ok” I try to insist
As he pulls back painted eyelids
And reads my thoughts.
He takes needles and tugs on a thread
Being very careful not to let
As he travels through my head
Trying to see,
What’s wrong with me?
“I’m ok” I plead
As he unties the knot in my chest
And I’m plummeting
But he’s still rummaging,
Draining the tears away
Tells me with training I’ll be ok.
Stitch me up.
He puts the pieces back together and asks if I want to talk.
But then the time runs out
And I’m out the door.
Still feeling the sting from the thoughts, he explored.
Like a rash I can’t itch
And it’s spreading with every session
I’m still learning to express it….
“I’m not ok.”