alexithymia

i remember i had this

high-heeled wearing

therapist who told me i

had alexithymia and i told

her she was an idiot

because i write this

beautiful poetry where

my words move

mountains and mothers

alike.

but, since that day,

my pen has run dry

and my voice has become

mute. i sit here grasping at

straws, hoping one sticks,

hoping one makes the

whole tower collapse,

and that the words at the

top will spill perfectly

onto the page, but they

never do and i don’t quite

know if they ever will

again