That Interloper is My Therapist – Tarkaa Moses

My therapist is the most expensive meal that I’ve ever purchased in my life.
I mean, she’s the copy of my reflection.
I mean, she’s the only one that pisses me and I don’t care.
She has coffee breath.
My therapist says I’m negative,
But I told my therapist that my mind is a darkroom.
That I have a tough time explaining the pictures.

My therapist says that I have self-destructive tendencies,
That I take things the wrong way.
What she really means is,
The last time she performed a test on me,
She found an asylum of malignant explosions ready to destroy everybody.

I told my therapist that I’m very indecisive,
That I have a tough time making decisions.
That my mouth is a velvet rope for the things I can’t take back.
This velvet rope throws moons like a concierge for my regrets.
So I go to therapy because I treat silence as a first language.

But my therapist said I speak fluently.
What she means is,
I talk in small circles and by small circles,
She means I talk in big circles and by big circles,
She means targets and by targets,
She means I wear my victims like a brand new pair of shoes.

But I never told my therapist,
That I have to borrow my mother’s tongue to say certain things.
I have to set her tongue out of a pool of blood in liquor to say things like,
Depression.
Cherish.
Adoration.
Blood.
You know – synonyms.

I told my therapist that my dad had a thing where he stuffs all of our bones.
In a bottle and he drank the spirits out of his family.
Why are you asking me about my family?
They are ghosts now.
They are gone.
They are surfing on my flesh,
And I’m on the shoreline waving them – “Hello!”

Bipolar depression is the birthmark I use to distinguish my bloodline with.
I’ve never told my therapist that I had polite suicide attempts.
I don’t leave cryptic Facebook messages.
I just cut my wrist and bleed poems.
I told my therapist that she said I have self-destructive tendencies.

So I finally decided what kind of combustion I am.
I am a controlled demolishing,
Cleaning my wreckage with a bucket of vodka and a mop.
I told my therapist that I’ve really had a tough time explaining my emotions.
She said, “but you’re a poet.”
I said, “just because I have words doesn’t mean I know how to communicate.”

Everybody needs someone to talk to.