7. Scapulars

It's not me, it's you.

They asked me for a tree,

to draw out my inside.

A weeping willow, sure.

Placating obtuse tries.

This girl started screaming,

I stood there, in a strange calm.

Seventeen, and carrying the staff.

The buoyancy unexpected,

when you speak words that soothe,

you never knew you had.

They watched me shave,

razors locked away,

but the pens were filled with potential.

I've learned that pain is an exit,

a way out of this mind

I seem to be stuck too.

In the room with my father

and that woman he chose

who called my suffering selfish,

so I was excused.

As the counselor said,

red faced and panting,

“You are not the issue.”

The days after softened,

like moments before waking

and then something shifted,

The weight not leaving,

but migrated. Released,

earlier than they expected.