The Things I Tell My Therapist by Michelle Davey

I don’t need a therapist,

I tell my therapist,

wiping away last night’s dream with the back of my hand,

tincturing the air with a spice of

red wine, valium and prozac,

I keep bottled for emergencies

and special occasions.

I slot a mint through gated teeth,

rest it on my tongue,

weigh up the calories and sugar content

before scratching a tally behind my eye.

I nod agreement to my own declaration.

I don’t need a therapist,

I tell my therapist.

From his clipboard he plucks a name.

It floats.

Red balloon,

from the page. Away.

I scramble to tiptoe upon the coffee table,

teetering and swaying for the string,

the potpourri and tissue cutting my toes.

Slight in my hand, I grasp it!

Canines bared I puncture it,

encasing the explosion within the walls of my mouth.

Swallow.

Crimson rubber,

searing from cheek down to gullet,

scratching a shriek on my heart,

settling limp, deflated

in the acid pit of my stomach,

preserved in the bile which I regurgitate often,

only to swallow back down.

I find my smile,

amidst the debris a-top the coffee table,

fix it below my ears,

teeth uniformed and broad - in thanks.

Stand.

I don’t need a therapist.

I tell my therapist.

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Michelle Davey is a poet, writer and radio presenter from East London. She blogs as the Cockney in the Countryside since her move to the English countryside. Michelle is a mother of 3 and an advocate for autism awareness. She can be found on twitter @cockneybloggirl and Instagram @thecockneybloggirl and at www.cockneyinthecountryside.com.