Therapy
Blossoms like my journal.
Scratches like the underside of my desk.
Chases me like a magnifying glass.
Twiddles its thumbs like a drawer.
Tangles like patterns on socks.
Flutters like a glass orb.
There were two days until therapy.
Bright and stunning conversations.
One hour until therapy?
I was gone.
One minute until therapy.
Tastes like opening up.
Stripes undone.
Couches like sitting in stew.
Suddenly, I lost the urge to sit on the couch.
And talk.
Tired like someone walking out the door of the therapist office.
30 seconds until my absence is noticed.
Abrupt like a therapist’s phone call.
But I’m already as gone as a rabbit.
Laughing like a rabbit so.
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