Starting again

Last summer a woman ‘read’ me.

I remember my smirk.

Chakras and angels and healing.

I remember my raised eyebrow.

It was just a bit of fun.

A bit of ‘me’ time.


I told her my first name. Nothing else.

She didn’t know me.

She didn’t know my story.

Her hands glided over my body.

As I lay on her table, offering my energy

my eyes flickered and I counted

each inhale and exhale

to dampen the rising anxiety.

“Stay away from people with addictions”.

Just like that.

Years of carefully packed secrets

poured over the sides of me.

I felt falling and trembling and tears.

She passed me a box of tissues.

“And start writing again,

it’s your souls work”.

My thoughts are rusty and

my fingers hover and delete.

Honest words are the only things that have ever filled my lungs.

But I don’t know if I’ve the energy

for the breathing and the being awake.

She says I must stop shrinking.

And vanishing.

And people pleasing.

I must write myself whole.