04.14.03 - 10:10 am
kate, not katherine.

"Come on back, Katherine,"
he says, stethoscope dangling
around his neck, limp and dead;
"Come on back and we'll see
just what's wrong with your brain."

and i follow, though my name is not
Katherine, no, it never was,
not unless Mother was angry.
But I say nothing
and follow, head bowed and silent.

I wait for the questions that always
come; did i think of the darkness?
Of the vivid red lines that once
stained my left forearm with
long slender scars that faded
from my skin but never
from my head?

"Come on back, Katherine,"
he says, "right into this office;
you can have a seat
and make yourself at home."
he leaves and returns with a cup
of hot coffee that burns my tongue.

I tongue the burn, reminded by this
small pain that i am real.
"Sometimes, I forget," I tell
him, and he snatches my words out
of the air and puts them down onto
paper in the unkempt writing
of one who went to medical school.


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this isn't done yet. i want to make it more little red riding hood like, but that can be done when i get home from work later. this is (sort of) about my many trips to the therapist. though i've always had a female one.

.drink up baby, look at the stars. // .i'll kiss you again, between the bars.