“Sorry, our time is up.”

I tell my therapist

“I eat my soup with a fork
because I don’t know any better
my truths are things I paint
from my own despair.

I am my own dealer.

I have been selling lies
to myself for, like, forever
and I’m pretty sure the lamb
in me is just a limb in me
beating the shit out of all
the sheep in me.”

                                            My therapist’s silence is so scrumptious sometimes.