Counseling

I’m happy my counselor is an incompetent piece of shit because it means she doesn’t, ask the real questions, tiptoes over my glass shards and scars hoping not the strum the wrong cord.  It’s been a months and we still refer to my eating disorder as “food stuff”, do not delve into why I am such a slut.  It’s been a month and she knows nothing more of my anxiety than my lack of eye contact and fidgeting hands, knows nothing of the voices, the ticking, the terror, the utter self-loathing, cannot tell that when speaking to people in authority I downplay every emotion I have ever felt, she has no idea about what his hands felt like on my skin, does not know that when I say him I cannot count the men I could mean on my fingers, we do not talk about what I do with my fingers, or that my nails are not just short because I am anxious, or queer.  I’m happy she doesn’t ask me because then I’ll never have to hear my answers.  

This poem is about: 
Me

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