The-rapist

I am a poet! I am. I am. I am a poet, I reaffirmed, ashamed.

My therapist says she wants to try something
and I say “Sure,” because she keeps
a jar of candy on her desk
and I’m a fucking idiot
who cannot get enough chocolate
and apparently I still haven’t
learned the lesson
that there’s no such thing
as a free sweet nothing

So, she stabs me in the chest
and asks if it hurts-
“No, not at all” I reassure her
thinking she probably
should be feeling pretty guilty
right about now and wanting
to assuage her.
“See, that’s a problem.”
she tells me,
“That’s the wrong answer.
But you get an F+
for effort. I’ll give you that.”

“Um, ok, and also,
how about some bandages?
-YOU FUCKING BITCH-
Do not stab me again.”

“You don’t need them,
you’re not bleeding.
Do you see how that’s
not the right way
for your body to react
to such a thing?
Can you…

View original post 24 more words

Author: Sudden Denouement

A Literary Collective

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