Honey Is A Drone’s Vomit Poem by Renee Marie

I’ll never forget her
carefully guarded lethargy and
verbal repertoire:

“Well, I’ll charge your insurance company
and, at the end of each fifty minute session,
you’ll pay me ten dollars. It’s all very simple”.

Her tired eyes drift behind dark Indian lids.
It felt so capitalistic, flimsy, yet strangely
seductive; her, stroking my artificial
super-ego, luring my mind
to drip through her
four-color pen in shorthand, I presume!
My introduction was precise.
I’m quite self-assured in my cognitive fortress.

“I know what I want but I’m restless”.

I told her how my newest Cinderella
rammed her glass slipper in my mouth
and left me spewing shock like chewing
shards of broken glass.

“Sometimes”,

she offered on our second visit from high eyes
over black rimmed glasses
balanced half-way down
her profit sniffing, upward tipping PhD nose –

“…you string words together like pearls”.

Just then, I knew, with the deepest clarity,
no matter how sweet,
no matter how many more Cinderellas break
my heart
I’d never go
back
to 'therapy'.