illuminated

Her eyes were glazed over even though her heart was illuminated.  When she opened her mouth she could hear the words falling on the floor, hitting the ground with a dull thud.  The candles surrounding her made tiny pinholes of light in the darkness.  Like the stars! exclaimed her little brother, and she smiled half-heartedly. 

I'm sorry I'm so broken, she would apologize feverishly to her therepist.  His eyes would glaze over as he replied in a facade of comfort, That's why I'm here.  I just don't know, I don't know what I'm supposed to be saying, saying here to get better, you know?  She would ask, feeling the sweat in her palms. 

There's nothing you're supposed to say, he would repeat each time,

just tell me everything.

But she could never tell him everything. Because she always felt drained, beaten, torn when she left that sterile place.  As though she had lost a part of herself.  Walking into the sunshine was physically painful, she was dizzy at all the stoplights on the way home.  The more of herself she gave away, the less she had to call her own.

And it wasn't fair at all, she thought to herself one day after their session.  He wasn't even excited that I made guacamole for my neighbors, and he didn't care about Timmy's 7th birthday.  He said he wanted to hear everything, and he's taking everything from me, but it means nothing in his hands. 

If it meant nothing to me, I wouldn't need to see him at all.

It's the meaning that hurts, that shivers, that is cold and hot and pulsing with thought. It's the meaning that devours, that leaps and stretches and worms it's way into conversations with strangers. She couldn't help herself, she had to talk about it.  The sessions took away the shards of broken glass she felt had been lodged in her skull, but she still carried their ghosts, imaginary friends that haunted and taunted, lounged around her in long white gowns. He could never see them, he could never take them away.

After everything else was gone, they were all she had.