behead your nightmares

the lies we tell our therapists 
are a different type of truth--
i have learned a hatred
of the pity of couches--
they look at you like stained
glass windows-- glossy-eyed
& brown leather like the movies
she says
behead your nightmares &
the woman in a taught bun
& square glasses hands me a 
pocket knife while
i lay back-- we're here
to cut a circle behind
my ear & look inside--
i don't like couches anymore
so i sleep beneath them--
his voice can't find me there &
i hate the face she makes 
the first time i tell her
i wake myself up in the middle
of the night to begin
my body in a symphony of
OCD compulsion-- turn my
elbows into trombone slides
on the carpet-- my forehead
the bell of a trumpet--
i sleep like the reed of 
an oboe-- restless & unfinished--
& i hate the way she looks at me
because she's handing me
a knife & telling me to
behead my nightmares
but there's nothing to cut
open anyone more & 
sleep is only a memory free
of the strangled cry
of a digital alarming clock
shrieking red into a black room--
so i tell her i don't 
play trombone anymore--
i tell her i count moon
light instead of calories--
i tell her i don't know
why my knuckles have grown dragon
scales-- i tell her
each night i wait
up with the pocket knife
& wait for the darkness to 
fall like an eyelid over my room
so i can cut off it's limbs
& kick it back to the other
side of the moon-- 
i sleep under my bed now--
with the resting on my chest 
i let nightmare undress me--
i hand him the pocket knife
& give him the option to
do what he sees fit
& some nights we take off
my skin & share it like a throw blanket--
other nights we play oboe--
crawl out onto the windowsill
& yearn for the sensation of falling--
i like it when she smiles--
when i lie & i tell her
that i sleep longer now--
when i lie & i tell her i'm 
doing so much better-- & so 
she asks to see the knife &
i tell her i keep it under my
pillow for when i need it most--
the lies we tell our therapists
are the teeth of our fears--
the alien beauty of our 
death under the bed-- the pocket
knife still fresh with 
the blood of trombones--