THINGS I DON'T TELL MY THERAPIST

 I leave the house every wednesday to walk in the park where lillies wither away under the spell of dry winds. 

Sometimes I dare to taste a new chocolate whose cover will be later glued in my journal.

Like a heiress counting her money I wait for the clock to yawn at two pm so that I can meet my therapist. 

The therapist tells me I can be whatever I want and smile at me with her eyes far away. 

Do you know what I want to be? 

A new language in which poets will only write love songs.

One among the flock of seagulls chanting an unknown mantra. 

A lock smith dead bolting hearts that search for love. 

An ambulance siren wailing on its every way.

A surrealist painting dissected by critics.

A pista cake worth waiting in a long line.

A queen in a far away island guillotining the king not his concubines. 

A teacher explaining thermodynamics.

A detached string of song in an orchestra.

The cologne wrapping itself on his cells.

The final act of Houdini.

A ticket to Disneyland. 

A soft pink sunset.

An opera house in New York in 90s. 

An onion ring that won't make you cry. 

A greenhouse plant breathing photosynthesis

A cemetery where ghosts meet to discuss about fear. 

A nicotine smoke moving under silver night.

A door no one opens without permission. 

The smile lines of past. 

The urn about which an ode was written.

A tongue which is not afraid to speak.

A muse to an infamous poet. 

I will die to be anything, but not me.

I won't tell her this, for am so good at keeping secrets. 


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