The therapist says,
Picture a bird in your mind
What kind of bird is it?
It’s small and white
It’s weightless and colorless, it seeps in and out of its white surroundings
It’s lonely when it flies and anxious when it walks
I need to protect it but
I need to protect it yet
(The mumblings of a rescuer)
It has pink armpits
Milky white bird doesn’t necessarily cry milky milky milky
They’re all lies, really,
White bird who just chirped in front of me like a white handkerchief,
is bird that politely sips tea
When I scold it, bird says that it couldn’t help itself
because of the attacks against me, the questions about my accountability for
my insanity, my violent language
Actually, I take up a lot of space
I’m about to become the grave of white bird
Every time bird says it couldn’t help itself
I want to fly high up
but I get short of breath because my chest is too big
I feel as if I’ll knock someone down when I spread my wings
So to be honest, I’ve never once spread my wings
Ah, ah, my wings are so big that I’m bird that can never be born
My wings smell like my womb’s spit
stench of stinky bird
Behind me (What are you doing?)
the therapist says,
Now place the bird inside your breast and hug it
Next day
the therapist says,
Picture a bird in your mind
What kind of bird is it?
I’m bird that can be born anywhere
I can even be born through a sweat pore
No matter how transparent a bird, it’s embarrassed when its body’s too big
so mayflies are probably the least embarrassed among those that fly
Behind me (What are you thinking?)
the therapist says,
Now hug the mayfly
