Me: An Insurgent

My therapist has long hair, sturdy and a

Kept face that

Enunciates dead 

Education on graphite stones. 

Her eyes are nylon against 

Crude lipstick, forming arcs on 

Door thresholds. Her head is a boulder, 

Clambering to fit the attic window, fifty feet above, propelling outside.

She told that my face romanticized the

Brushwork of Rembrandt, I am not. No.

My temple is a

Forgotten memory 

Of 

Julie garwood, stubbing at cigars and

Averting her eyes, branching 'em to

Gaze at Elizabeth, her eyes becoming

Casements barged open.

She told that I am hotel rooms stippled 

With amateur

Kisses & lambent 

Icy purple lights, lined to form 

A shape hard to recognize. 

I am, she sighed, dusty phone booths

Seeking vengeance from unrequited 

Lovers point &

"The Aeschylean Trilogy". But, nonetheless, 

I am not a love story, the Goddess announced

In exile.

My therapist says 

That I am a carton of France tickets,

Romanticizing a place more than 

A person, naming citadels after ex boyfriends,

Atriums after 

Autumn breaths

Falling incessantly on electric wires.

I am not love, seared with quaint 

Prosthetic 

Arms.

I AM A SORRY AFTER MISTAKES;

REBEL AGAINST COUNTRY ATTACKS.

I'm not candle light dinner dates slouching against the lush meadow of pearl white jasmines,

Not summer 

Riding horsebacks

Where my beau forgot to attach the tack.

I am the subdued swarm,

Writhing inside

Slips of hospital bills & grocery bags, 

Parapets of 

Iron balconies, and 

Heartbreaks in an oasis.

If you wrong me with Wordsworth, I can tell you 

I AM AN INSURGENT AGAINST FALSE MUTINY.

I am not love

But filth inside Roman poetry.

My therapist mistook me as Juliet,

But I AM JANET JAGAN, fierce & 

Slaughtering gauche stereotypes with grey guillotines, silk-ridden 

Flowers with shrewd thorns

&

Dry mouth, leading 

Elegant 

Dictatorships, forever

And ever.