I think it’s sort of a pill, not enough,
but just adequate
to get through one session of therapy.
is supposed to serve as confessional
some unburdening of my subconscious.
You aren’t dead.
What should I see after this scraping off
You not cutting my hair while I slept,
silly and ten, waking on the floor, chased
around the kitchen
at three in the morning by the imagination?
pinches over twenty, startled awake at night
and still stumbling
towards the you-that’s-not-there? You seem hard
far away as Halloween during January.
Why are you still eating my memory?
for Christmas, and every once in a while,
for more than my pen can sketch on flat paper.
I want it reimbursed. I almost want you gone.