Therapy

My job as a therapist isn’t to make you feel good. It’s to help you see that you are strong enough to feel bad – a post on Instagram

Yesterday I saw a bluebell. Stamped on it. 

I went home and told my wife I was having an affair. 

(I’m not really having one, I just figured

our marriage might be getting a bit too easy.)

I immediately put my foot through the telly, 

tore up all my paperbacks and built a bonfire. 

Burnt them. Told the tax people I owed them more

then pissed away all the money I had on a violin

I can’t even play. I considered killing the cat

but that was a step too far – the kids would be upset

and frankly I don’t know if they’re hardy enough yet.

See, I can already feel my armour strengthening

beneath the skin. That circuitry in my brain

is as deep and resolute as the cables under the sea.

Hand me now those poems I spent the best part

of a decade perfecting. I’ll scrunch the scraps

they’re scribbled on to scrub away the tears.

Joshua Seigal