Aubade (v2)

[matsunosuperfan]

Aubade

Therapy's the worst. The talking does no good:
no one understands anyone they haven't slept with
yet. A plant in every office, so when you think back
on how you've always shit on those who loved you,
there's a metaphor for hope. Then the flaccid questions,
like you're some retarded child: What feels like spring
to you right now? What do you really want? I want to go
back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be so hard
he walks home sideways like a crab, I want a second
heart. When he turned forty, Dad finally made my mom
the happiest woman alive and started seeing Doctor
Schlumpberger. They'd read the books together,
do the work, my stubborn father dog-earing the pages
he would never cry over again. We all knew it was bullshit:
there's no real cure for life. One December night
out in the Castro Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay
and being much too young and beautiful, the wrong guy
took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke up
missing certain parts, a knuckle blue and sunken in,
a crowbar in my gut. My breathing slow and even somewhere
far away from me. How quick the sun came up behind me,
how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—I don't know,
I guess this morning someone looked at this thing and decided
it was trash?

Previous draft 
Aubade

Therapy's the worst. Everyone I know already understands themselves
better than anyone who hasn't spent a night inside their body. Their offices
all have the same anemic plant shoved in a corner, so when you think back
on all the ways you've shit on everyone who loved you, you see something
green and living in the room, which helps with ideation. They ask these flaccid
questions, like you're some retarded child: Let's explore your feelings, what is it
you really want? I want to go back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be
so hard he walks home sideways like a crab, Doc—how bout you? When he
turned forty, Dad finally made my mom the happiest woman alive and started
seeing Dr. Schlumpberger. They'd meditate together over every child, my father
summoning his ancestors to give him strength and better vision. We all knew
it was bullshit: there's no real cure for life. One December night out in the Castro
Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay and being much too young and
beautiful, the wrong guy took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke
behind a dumpster with my hands still zip-tied to my feet, a crowbar in my gut.
My breathing slow and even somewhere far away from me. How quick the sun
came up behind me, how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—Hey Doc, this morning
someone took one look at this thing and decided it was trash?