Not Much Longer Now
- Madeline Graham
- Jun 14
- 1 min read
The therapist is
asking you to pick an emotion
off the wheel through the screen
while you sit in the dorm room
you haven’t cleaned
in weeks.
Stupid,
you pick.
Stupid stupid stupid.
She makes a face and
you think she feels bad for you,
because she has a daughter your age,
she has told you.
Why do you feel that way?
she asks,
and her accent is like the one who ruined you.
The ache inside your gut
feels like fingers inside you
scraping you out like a peanut butter jar
that won’t ever be quite clean.
I want to go home,
you tell her instead.
As if home exists anymore.
As if there is anywhere but here,
as if there is anything left for you
but to die in this room,
moonlight illuminating the cold
contours of your still face
as magpies peck at your flesh.
Not much longer now,
the thing you call Emily whispers.
You’re not stupid,
she is telling you.
You’re so young.
You stare out the window
as hot tears flow down your face
like blood from fingernail scrapes in places
you don’t want to think about.
You see a magpie,
waiting, waiting, waiting...
