She Rides Wild, like the Wasp

I have a therapist.
She's been with
me since birth.
Watercolors on my
soul.
She spills black, and
blue; sometimes
red.
Blood is to
bright on the white
page.
I blush for the
both of us.

When all is out for
the caged moments,
I collapse and rest.
I dream in metaphors,
and I taste the
sweetness of her
inner thigh.
Tangerines and treehouses.

I wake to find her slurping on
my soul, I seize her and she
greets me with grief or
gospel music, or
obscure memories of
vaginas long gone.

We take this wild
ride together

forever learning from
our symbiotic bond.