I imagine telling my therapist
about the imaginary conversations
I have with myself.
About how the past
sits in my throat
like a dense,
coarse knot.
About how on some days,
it unwinds and flattens itself
so it can pass through the outer layers
of my skin
and crawl out into the present
like ivy curling up
the slopes of an old building.
About how the thoughts
seem like a mixture
of water, dirt and grass —
about how they harden,
about how they come together,
about how they last.
About how they form themselves
into archways
around a pewter birdbath
lazily left in the yard,
about how you’re standing there,
pigeon-toed
your messy hair strewn about your face.
About how you are a ghost
at home in his house.
About the ghost,
the home,
the house.
About a poem entitled
I’M NEVER GOING TO THERAPY AGAIN
but about how
I hope that they did.
About how the person at the grocery store
notices when I’ve changed my hair color
and about how I think
he must be thinking of someone else
because currently
I’m just a shadow
of myself
About how as a kid
I wrote lines of poetry like:
“we are who we are and the past
cannot change us”
and
“it won’t change us”
About how wrong I was
about everything then
and about everything
since.