Poem: The Clock

The Clock

Nothing has happened
Since I am healing
That makes me wonder
if the brokenness makes me unique
or some sort of a freak.

The therapist laughs and looks at the ceiling
She has big long hair and red nails
I’m bored; I think while touching my fingers
I also have red nails, but my polish is scarred.

The therapist office has white walls
fake orchids in a corner,
a small library,
a sofa with two heart-shape cushions,
(the ones with arms from Ikea)
and two white chairs are placed in front of her desk.

My head is pulsing. It feels heavy.

She keeps checking notes
and writing on her computer
She looks reluctant
I look up, and the clock has the wrong time
At two will be three, remember?
So, it’s seven and not six.

I need my brain to start functioning again,
but my body is not responding
I’m exhausted.

I think of my mom,
her little battle with life
my night walks through the park
and then, she asks about death and my depression

I’m just tired, I say
The emotional baggage has become physical now
That’s ok, she replies.

We also talk about love
I move my head
from point —> A
<— to point B
To express a big fat NO.

She laughs again,
and asks me if I am afraid
I’m not. I don’t have time for it. That’s all.

Six months ago, I met this guy,
and we had sex twice,
and afterwards
I felt this emotional hangover of how unworthy I was.
For a o-n-e-n-i-g-h-t-s-t-a-n-d…
Can you believe it?

She writes on the computer and moves her eyes
You can imagine a mini version of herself
looking through the archives of her mind
so she can keep asking stuff
with that soothing voice:
maternal and condescending in equal parts.

I’m thinking on my way back
The dogs. The stairs to get to the fifth floor
I also think that I need to buy coffee. I love coffee. I think I drink too much: three cups per day
The clock is still wrong
It’s supposed to be seven zero five, not six zero five.

She announces that my weekly sessions will be, from now on, twice per month
Am I happy? I guess. It’s a good thing
It means that I am healing
I don’t need that much of her anymore.

I mention the clock being wrong before I left
The day feels thick
I start walking towards the subway
Pass the flower stand
Check my reflection
And the ugly haircut that I have

I’m almost 40, and I’ve been emotionally frozen for half of my life.

Published by Cherry Adam

Moody experimentalist. Hypersensitive & Noir moments Poetry, Essays & Sound Experimentation Freelance Music Journalist

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