The-rapist

My therapist says she wants to try something
and I say “Sure,” because she keeps
a jar of candy on her desk
and I’m a fucking idiot
who cannot get enough chocolate
and apparently I still haven’t
learned the lesson
that there’s no such thing
as a free sweet nothing

So, she stabs me in the chest
and asks if it hurts-
“No, not at all” I reassure her
thinking she probably
should be feeling pretty guilty
right about now and wanting
to assuage her.
“See, that’s a problem.”
she tells me,
“That’s the wrong answer.
But you get an F+
for effort. I’ll give you that.”

“Um, ok, and also,
how about some bandages?
-YOU FUCKING BITCH-
Do not stab me again.”

“You don’t need them,
you’re not bleeding.
Do you see how that’s
not the right way
for your body to react
to getting stabbed
in the chest?
Can you explain to me
where all your blood went?
Because you really seem
to have none left.”

“Oh, ok. I see
why you did that.”

11 thoughts on “The-rapist

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s