Therapy

Reaching forwards,

trailing backwards.

I used to struggle telling the time:

one hand moved so fast

whilst the other dragged-

shadows always felt more

meaningful than

the light

and the masochist in me

never wanted my sins

to be seen.

I crave an empty room now:

space and time

to myself,

a rope ladder

reaching upwards

with something solid

simultaneously anchoring

me below: sun glasses to

protect my eyes

and a direction

a current,

something

giving me a sign

giving me a

lead.

I try

to use words

to contain these

contradictions.

I try to use words.