Rip off the bandage
plunge me into analysis,
with your immediacy,
well-intentioned desire,
snap me out of my paralysis.
Your sympathy,
a well crafted ruse.
Soft spoken kindnesses
can only confuse.
I look for the trap,
the rationale, the bait.
The healing more painful
than this crisis I hate.
You slap my hand,
admonish me,
don’t pick at the scars,
stay in the moment,
don’t dwell in the past,
nor look too long
at the stars.
You would pray for me,
have me pray for myself,
but my pain doesn’t understand.
You drag me about
to houses of worship
for a laying on of hands.
I would have all this
done and over,
you stress the importance,
necessity to heal.
But you can’t rush me
through myself
Your professionally detached
has its limits
and you don’t fully understand
how I feel.

– M. Zane McClellan

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