I wrote to a therapist this morning.
Detailing my drama,
that I playfully play off as diva behaviour.
I think,
what I really want,
is to be affirmed,
for all the maddening sadness to be heard,
confirmed and then confined,
to weeping pages,
airtight cages,
where it can’t follow me.
I used to want to be rich.
I’d dream of golden rivers,
private jets and rivieras,
but I don’t think any of it would make me happy.
I used to want to be happy,
but I don’t know that I know how to do that,
and I told them that (the therapist),
but I don’t know that they know either.
I wrote to them,
to say that I don’t know how they’re supposed to fix me,
but I’d like them to (I think),
but maybe it will be just like my golden dreams,
where I wake up,
one day,
in a cold,
confined room,
to a cold,
confined life,
and realise that there’s no such thing as fulfilment,
or happiness,
just a slow,
delusional road,
that always has the same destination.
