The View

Who needs therapy?

Who does therapy help?

This is going to sound like

a complete rag on therapy 

but it isn’t, I promise.

There is a certain kind of 

person who is told to go to 

therapy (all people in therapy 

are not the same) But the people 

who must be told they should 

go to therapy are stubborn and 

blind. The ones who polish off 

bottles of wine all alone.

People who yell to quiet the 

confusion in their own head.

Those who do not feel things, 

things like life, come as easy 

for them as it does for others.

But hear me out:

It is also a certain 

kind of person 

that tells another

they must go to 

therapy. An insinuation 

implying they are 

less, they are damaged 

and in need of repair.

They are just trying 

to help. But in their 

efforts to help they 

have ripped away

any feeling of 

normalcy replacing 

it with a freak 

show position. 

Telling someone else

to go to therapy

is like putting your 

hand on their shoulder,

leaning on them, 

while you hop up 

onto a wooden crate.

The view is beautiful 

up here, why don’t you 

step up here and look at it?

In replying you are fine 

where you are you are 

met with criticism that 

you are not your best self 

if you haven't seen this 

view, everyone else has 

seen this view and loves it.

How do you even know

you’ll like the view, what

if it’s a mountain range 

and the only thing you 

wanted to see was the beach.

Maybe if 

you just 

talk to 

someone

about 

the view

you’ll 

understand 

and want 

to see it,

come on 

just take 

a look, 

it can’t hurt.

But it does hurt.

Every single time, 

it feels like

I am personally

slicing open

my chest cavity.

In order to be helped in therapy,

one is meant to open up about 

themselves, which I have done.

I took the scalpel and slowly 

sliced from the mole on my neck

to the scar by my pussy, until all 

my organs and juices bulged out 

of the front of me. And then, in 

the name of healing and betterment 

and hope, I tore my liver out and 

put it on the sad, grey coffee table.

The saddest color grey ever mixed.

After that, came my right lung, 

then my left lung, then my kidneys. 

Lumps of myself laying across

the table for some strange woman 

to poke around with her pencil,

rolling my lung over on its side to

get a better look. Eventually my 

stomach, my appendix, my eyeballs,

and part of my heart are strewn 

across the bluish-green carpet,

the cheap kind of carpet you can 

find in public high school libraries.

The deep pools of blood stain the 

floor under where the organs lay.

I am told this is how I fix myself,

But I have always heard dissection 

is death, and this feels like dying.

And sometimes 

they don’t realize,

the box is up high 

and I’m afraid of 

heights, and their 

fat feet are taking 

up too much room

for me to comfortably

stand beside them.

To be honest, I am 

much more comfortable 

on the floor. It may be

a little dirty, and I can 

barely see the view,

but I can stand with

both my feet firmly 

planted. Which is 

much easier than 

tottering on a wooden 

crate.

I just want to be comfortable,

in this world. Wondrous 

adventures supposedly

await you at the end of your

comfort zone but I am

scared to go there.

Maybe I should go to therapy.