Dear Fiona,
My dear therapist
I am sorry
I am sorry for ghost white lies
I say
You labeled me
PTSD or ptsd or PeeTee Es Dee
And blah blah blah
It doesn’t matter, to me
And I told you the flies-in-my-gut truth
The things I don’t remember
That you somehow coaxed me into reliving
I’m still unsure what all I told you that day
It was most certain a unique kind of hell
One I’m sure you have never endured
And now
I notice
your knuckles curl
when I enter your room
How the seat is two feet farther back
I see you tremble, Fiona
And I never knew scars could cut
But I see you bleed
When we pick my scab
I’m sorry Fiona
But I think it’s too late
And this
my friend
Is just a ghost white lie