Therapy (Revision)

Therapy

Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.

I give a sideways glance,
then catch your gaze, as tears begin
to well up. My face burns as
I taste salt and I blush:
embarrassment,
shame,
humiliation.

The cat is out of the bag.
Somehow I feel at least
five pounds lighter.
Your steely look:
is that concern?
Do you really care?
Are you even listening?

I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
filling the room with complex adjectives.
Thank God there is no mirror;
I must look a mess -
self-conscious and nervous.

I return to your stare as a soft
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected.
It isn't my imagination.
Dark fantasies have taken flight,
fleeing my mind like rats
from a slow, sinking barge.

“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I said it again.
“He hurt me.”