Do not psychoanalyze me.
I do not appreciate it,
a crucifix of bad memories
expecting the familiar
instead you see my face.
the Psyche who should have
been hit with an arrow at least once.
We talked the Holocaust and
the Ukraine on blood-hooks;
Putin’s laughing, reversing time
yet again. Inside his body:
amnesia and via ferrata
like lost relatives; would he weep
I am not sure.
Then we moved onto
my schooling memories
tickled my brain
the cause of my introversion
you knew too well
far from what I wished to discuss,
face resembled surprise, I didn’t feel for her,
watching her give up
when I said
It was not my parents,
I was extroverted when I was younger, with a texture
of the hummingbird adamantine and curious,
sweet like the phlox; do not rest
in my head under the eaves
too long, the quiet hides
I will not give you translations.
That is not my gift to you. I will let you
feel for me the pity I did not ask for
as tremulous as two lovers
blinding and attached to their miasma
to the mountains made after a rich white woman’s death.
© 2022 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.
I always love to stretch reality in my re-tellings. I am still bitter that I was “psychoanalyzed” by one of my psych professors about why I am the way I am. All from my retelling of a few key experiences in my formative schooling, which dealt with the improper treatment of autistic individuals by teachers.