Therapy by Haze Fry (17, California)

​This maze was not made for someone
with feet.
I am running silently,
blisters on my toes,
as I remain frozen in a wooden chair.
Leather seat cracking from the moisture
of my nervous sweat.

This maze was not made for someone
whose teeth click when they smile,
smiles only when they should be frowning.
Turns fists into thumbs ups
when they want to punch.
My punches are creased eyes,
grins punctured by discomfort
that I won’t let my therapist see because
what if it punctures her
too?

This maze is barely a maze –
more of a straight path with fallen trees
scratching my knees as I walk through them.
Thistles getting tangled
in my leg hair.
But where is this path going?
If I stub my toe then they will swarm
to kiss the swollen red
and I will be happy with anything,
as always,
and I will follow the path
guiding my family by the leash of my humor,
the jokes I make to distract them
from the jokes I don’t make.

They all speak casually, reminding me of when I threw food
in the compost,
wrapped in toilet paper like the mouth
it was never held by.
And I have to smile because how else
do I leave my body?
How else do I become
an entity who holds their brain like a spool
of thread?
Decides when to use it,
decides when to spin it into something pretty.
How else do I stop myself from crumbling
into another peeling flake
on the seat of my chair?