I have carved a mosaic in my mind of what a therapist should have to look like
I think scrubs, afro hair & spectacles—a shrink should shrink 
Into broad vessels, then wafers; something of a holy communion 
Should I have to confide the sins I left unsaid
At the altar, to a mere mortal?
I think sobs, and me yanking myself away 
Out of the lollipop wraps: brands of quintessence y'all wrapped over me
I think sabres, me tearing open traumas
Wounds closed by fate, still wounds, unhealed
I think talons; clawing with hidden savagery at my heart's cage,
Around my sternum, I would want to show you the colour of malice, as it is minced
In my blood, and what hideous words have painted: blues and brine on my heart
I would bear my skin open, unearth my bones to show you wounds
Hurting untamed, dancing in a numbing fashion through my muscles, 
glands and every organ of the sense, stealing my receptive abilities 
How I was charred in the rain, seated in flames
How I deal with loss by inundating, drowning 
Last time, the angel of death came too early, had to save me
The bath was overfilled with roses and the scent of oil
The bath should have sent me through the mausoleum, 
To the creator, to the ones I loved
Can a mortal hear this story, of me and mine & not falter?
Myself, a mere mortal, I bought lots of coats and sleeves
Would the therapist ask not that I roll up my sleeve?
I could roll up my sleeves, bear the wounds of ease 
Through the confession veil, unto Father Benedict 
He won't know me, won't judge me, he'd allow me penance
O' therapist, mere mortal, 
How shall I live with you, knowing both me and my secrets?