SENSE OF SELF
By Maggie Rehr
If anything,
she was a method actress.
Her parents wanted one person
and the teacher another.
That’s typical, Therapist said.
She figured that she hated the afternoon
because she could see a shadow.
Books and television and movies
were full of good people that everyone liked.
But sometimes the bad people
did likable things too.
She acted in front of Therapist too,
except that she did not fear that Therapist
would find out what she really was.
As if this PhD who assigned journaling,
and coping skills,
had any clue about the catch-all-diagnosis’ moral self.
At the end of acting sessions,
the little girl would surround herself with divine inquiry.
what does Therapist see?
am I good?
am I trying to be good?
does my effort show?
or does making an effort at all prove that I am bad?
For hours she was stuck to the bed,
a motionless magician,
trying to escape herself.
The little girl used music,
and she hit the floor.
a living shell used chemicals,
while the ceiling cradled the bones.
But this new shambles?
There was no method acting for her new role.
There was nowhere left to run.