“…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.