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.
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.