An Emotionless Affair

What you think you know of me, you’ve gleaned from pages of a yellow legal pad stained with sterile ink leaked from your doctor’s pen; it’s an emotionless affair, the goings-on between patient (me) and psychiatrist. I’m a mistress in hysterics seeking validation from just another goddamned man. If this were the nineteenth century, you’d have long sent me to an asylum, and had my womb mutilated by staff surgeons.

When I speak, you scribble, and I imagine you’re only illustrating me naked, sprawled upon the divan, jaundice skinned and lined with blue. Make me a whole person, you write (mocking me) inside a comic book word bubble inserted above my head. But I continue talking about how I feel since learning my mother had woken up dead, and the gut-fucking grief inside of me, because I do want to be a whole person.

It’s an emotionless affair, the goings-on between patient and psychiatrist.

And my imagination is a distrustful cunt.

 

(image: Artmajeur)