Letter to my Therapist
BY JULIANNA McCANN
It’s not you, it’s me.
Maybe it’s you.
Thing is, you picked me up
off the ground when I was
a chipped china doll,
pressed me back together
and dressed me in satin.
I love you for that.
But here I am
in my silk-soft dress
and I don’t want to be soft
anymore.
A dagger-sharp tongue
doesn’t have to be a weakness.
I want my edges back. I want to shout.
Susan, I want to be so loud
the skies bow down.
is this normal,
or am i strange?
BY JULIANNA McCANN
In this unwelcome world,
sunlight bites
and street signs scream.
There’s a shudder
on my shoulders from a shadow
no one sees.
Sometimes, there’s nothing
I want more than to float
up, up, and away. But dissociation
isn’t an answer.
When the sun starts to shriek
that’s when I sit
and try my best to breathe.
Sometimes, air mocks
my mouth, teases and
dances away.
Fingers tingle
before I faint,
sometimes.
Sometimes not.
This world is
one thousand wars
I never signed up for.