That

She sat across, leant across and asked
what it looked like
The overt politeness
every second I’d not trembled nor stumbled
smiled WITH eye contact
mimicked her posture
“i’m just like you look”
I don’t stay up past 12
eat 3 times a day
run occasionally
and obviously that means
that means my brain is cushioned with structure
the promise of continuation
I look forward, think forward, walk forward
but that thing doesn’t know forward only forwardness
it’s a base
call it structureless but its still,
crouching
I wish it shouted - instead it hums
horizontal melodies
whats left to confess
why don’t you speak
it wraps around the chair 5 times and touches the floor
slightly trailing out the door
draped at first but now far more tense
self confident
tiny hand- squeezing till I become sand
I slump against
clump against
more, the chair       softer than before
it tells me I’m not what I am and what I am never was
until I don’t believe that ‘am’ is a constant or see how anything could seem
to posses sense
it wants to scream
but instead frustration like sticky fluid leaks from the gaps in its knitted face
a mess and I’m surrounded by stick
breath has got tacky and I feel my spit
she reconciles
but shadows grow
and I remember
“the train is currently stuck at a red signal
we’ll be on the move again as soon as possible”
and knowing but not knowing
that shade resounds for a moment at least.
I can’t compete
I quietly but not impressively breathe
and it scowls so knowingly
I remember that I’m a project of incomplete, non-retractable works
as it projects the faults
grumbling, stumbled once, then crouching
I want to leave
but I think the room is still stuck at a red signal
That was definitely a sympathetic nod
but half the room is warping
eyes deadpan drip into the deepest holes I want to fall into, spill into
the gentle shift in the air towards
I have crunched my hand, my nails are in my palms
and a small stain makes me look like a child
but she nods on,
like my face hasn’t flinched enough to satisfy this idea of healing.
Two thin strings rise towards the ceiling
trace the outer side of the wall
clinging to the corner
pieces hang
“it” I say “i don’t want to think about”
“it recognises it’s name"
as I watch the hanging threads tense into tight curls and release with each exhale
“it rarely looks the same”
 but I feel it feeling me
addressing me
barking, collating, healing me
no actually, not that
I’m starting to think my fingers are a lot like stringy freefall
mimicking the wave
thighs tighten
loosen
tense
un
my skin starts to have gaps and focal points
deepened crooks
she stares right through one and I think we’re green
leaning my hand away from me
so I can’t see the similarity
regain a professional adult tone
thank her for efficiently corrupting
the distance I’d been maintaining
I stand up and I’m touching
each string strand
cold
drooping
I tilt my head
and the weight of the room deepens
walk past its chair
trying to prove I see nothing there
the air in the room angular and leaning
strands flailing
now plucking
I can feel my skin covering
in condensation
from all the smothering
as it’s finger unhooks
I feel it taste
and wonder if I’m more like sweat or fear or haste
there’s an inaudible pop
and i berate my belief and trust
as I walk away.