I know therapy would help,
It would unburden me
of all my dark thoughts and self-critiques.
But then I would have to kill them.
It’s nothing against the therapist—
I know they have a code.
I am the keeper of my own secrets.
No one can use your secrets against you
if you never share them.
I would like to tell my therapist
about my relationship with my mother
and how I desperately don’t want it to turn
into the one she has with her own.
I would talk about my lack of connection to religion,
and how I’m baffled by my extended family’s faith;
and I believe in a higher power that answered to no name—
a quiet watcher over life.
I’d tell my therapist how I have yet to find a full-time job,
and how companies don’t care if you have a degree—
they want people with years of experience,
but I can’t get years of experience
without a degree first.
It’s a double-edged sword if I ever saw one.
My therapist would not judge.
They would not give me homework.
They’d let me express what I can’t to my parents—
because if I did, they’d only worry about me,
which is the last thing I want.
Having a therapist would be nice,
but then I’d have to kill them
Because letting someone else know me that well is dangerous.