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 people pleasing.
I must write myself whole.