Sarah LaRue
One therapist one time told me vulnerability is overrated
after months spent peeling reluctant secrets from
my tightened throat to paper her office walls
with a hand held up to stop my words—I said too much
secrets she didn’t want to hear
She seemed so smart and
right and wise and so
I watched myself shrink into
her pillowed couch
sinking lower as stuck to her walls
my secrets trembled
She became my mother then
ready to look at anything but folded paper secrets
covering my redding face suddenly
I am invisible in the only ways that matter
I wanted them back to coat my insides again
wherever they’d be safe
I shut up to tell her what she wanted to hear
Her walls began to shake
each of my secrets lifted in leaf sheets
desperate pushing out closed windows
I urged edged truths back down my throat
papercuts and all—swallowing
choking my life down for making me strange
Back inside me my story refuses to shrink
slowly bursting at seams in growing demands for my growth
with no choice left I breathe some room
let my guts unfold secrets I keep from myself
dissect with my tongue shame from some crumpled pieces
breathe fire on worn-out stories and blow dust from
the ones always true
I stick my tongue out singing colors—
pearly gravel shadows in my voice
remind me of its climb
Sarah (she/her) is a health advocate, activist, and poet who loves the sunshine and the storms. She is a queer Jewish reiki-practicing witch, and her poems are how she explains Life to herself. Her books, I’ll just hide until it’s perfect and Tend, are available now by contacting Sarah.
