They taught you to be afraid. They showed you the way to make everything just right, such that you could never find peace. And they couched their explanations in language that implied entitlement, correctitude, serenity.
That is why, when you sit in your padded room, you look around yourself and see that everything is how they said it should be, and yet you are without peace, bereft of contentment.
And you assume it is because of you that your peace is stillborn. You’re not doing it right. You don’t deserve it. You’re too weak.
I want to pluck out the eyes of the dream and watch it stumble into traffic. I want to string together a sequence of sentences and have it matter. I want to help. With these hands, I want to shape the vessel of your deliverance. I want to fold, spindle, and mutilate the poisons that were fucked into your ear. I want to take something dirty and polish it until it shines the light of truth to shame the daylight. I want to insinuate myself gently into the uterus of toil and draw forth the birth of freedom.
But I’d settle for a hug.