This is not about the time she met you
in the hospital
housed in a 19th century cottage
on the street lined with trees
and private school girls.

This is not about you
welcoming a room of curios,
bibs and bobs; mental patients
huddled in the room
with the bay window.

This is not about your magnetism,
a smile curving across your face
like a country road calling her home,
a voice velvet with kindness
and rumbles of drought-breaking rain.

This is about therapy ending
and blaming myself.
It’s about saying goodbye,
feathers greased with guilt.
It’s the canyon
as large as your absence,
demanding an acrobat’s leap
from padded cell to urban sprawl.

This is about me, orphan again,
hollowed out, black hole heart
that could drain galaxies
sucking for love.

It’s me, no longer her,
not quite eagle strong
wishing for one more day
of you catching the fall.

Published by sarcasticfringehead

I'm an adult survivor of child abuse who documents therapy; a yellow brick road to hell.

8 thoughts on “Limbo

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