therapy

I’m taking control, making changes. Some for the worst, others for the best. I don’t like to evade or retreat. My secrets are inconsequential. I’m taking things into my own hands - I kissed my therapist. On the lips. Life is but a game of ‘Smash or pass’ and I hate waiting for ice cream. “I like the way you move,” he said, “I like your skin.” “It’s what people notice first” I admitted, “want to see it?” Or maybe I dreamed that - I dream about him, sometimes. *shrug* I think the helpless, astringent, professional intimacy fires me. I want him to ask me about my jerkwater sex life, he has a concomitant passport, but he never does. Isn’t that important - what about Freud? What do you think you inherited from your parents? He asked. “What a question!” I observed, “You mean genetically?” “Come on,” he prompted, and I thought for a long minute. “I have my mother’s impatience, her drive to succeed and her thick blonde hair that seems to dry instantly.” He nodded, indicating he liked where I was going. “I have my father’s eyes, his flashing temper and flat chest.” He chuckled, but I could tell he wanted me to stay serious. “Then there’s my Stepfather (Step), he taught me humor, patience and self-control - oh, and how to drive.” He sucked on his pencil eraser and nodded. He always blurs the line between performance and approval. . . Songs for this: Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay The Spot by Your Smith