The therapist told me my heartbeat was rewired to kill itself
instead of keeping me alive, that the light found in most peoples’ eyes
had shut off in my own from lack of electricity,
and my back was bent like the spine of a much-loved book
after years of putting myself down.
The day I sat in the therapist’s chair was the same day I realized
that I don’t need someone else to tell me what’s wrong with myself.
That no one knows me better than I do,
knows that underneath my skin there are ruby summer skies
just waiting for the storm clouds to pass,
knows that there are fault lines in my bones trying to break me open
but I will never let them tear me apart and shake me to the core.
That day I realized a licensed degree in therapy, combined with a couch and pen,
will never be a magnifying glass into my soul.
That I just need some time to work things out on my own
without the help of a person who doesn’t even know my middle name
and only wants to dig me up for inspection.
So when I went back to the therapist for my second session,
I left a note face-up on her chair.
“You don’t need to fix me.
I was never broken.”