Butchering the Placental Cord

“I was frolicking up a staircase made of clouds only to end up muzzled in a circus ” I explain to Lola - my puzzled therapist “Your rational faculty seem to be calloused by your crippling catatonia” Her reply was coated with felt-like futility Amusingly, the fangs of her Achromia snip away at the once blossoming lilacs of her empathy Her voice as dead as the stale air of my medicated asininity I numbly whisper as my jaws start to jitter: “The umbilical residue cushion my fractures as I collide against myself in the mist. The marrow of my wrists harrowed as I laved myself in the currents of this psychotropic tryst” Slivers of shivering semblance slip as my speech starts to quiver “Bolts of ivy thorns shooting out of my thumbs as chilled acetone affably kiln my leathery lungs” My words are like empty chambers in a gun Staring down the barrel of this moment, I duck down and plunge heedlessly hunching into my neonatal womb Lola responds: “I see you recklessly assume and choose to stay cocooned in your wooden tomb. One day, your unconscious lit fuse will burn the glue that seals the door of your clandestine youth” Alarmingly alive, perfuse as she pursues to rattle the tail end of my serpentine cognition inflicting wounds with a Jungian razor on this irreverent recluse “Refuse this samsara of self-abuse. The thorns shooting out from you are already starting to take root. Butcher the placental cord holding you hostage or devour its rotten fruit.”