My own

pointing-finger

“…and whose voice do you hear saying those things?” This is what my therapist would ask.

“No one’s. My own.”

Flashing neon lights, I hang above my head. Like a strip joint and I’m exposed. Or a quivering finger, nails chewed to the quick. I unveil the witch. So throw down your gavel. Snicker and sneer. I’m already sucking on shame like a leech. The blame I reap. A name? My own.

This was my response to Day 7: Fingers, Prose Poem, Assonance.

Photo Credit: You by James Theophane is license under CC BY 2.0

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3 thoughts on “My own

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