The UNSPOKEN

I need to pee. 

This morning I left the house without going to the bathroom which wasn’t a smart move because I drank a whole mug of the new tea Sara brought me from her trip to India for breakfast. I’m pretty sure it was a pity gift and not a fun souvenir but I tried it anyway. It was pretty good, actually. I’ll have to thank her after my appointment. 

Most people hate going to their therapy appointments but I don’t mind them very much. Sitting in front of a stranger and nodding my head while pretending things are getting better is something I’m good at. Or maybe not good at. I’m just used to it. However, my past therapist moved to New Jersey so now I have to get used to this new guy called Dr. Theeber, who, based on what I read online, is supposedly one of the best therapists around and his secret is using bean bag chairs in his office. I’m not putting much hope in him, though. Nothing ever changes. 

A teenage guy wearing a Red Sox hat makes his way to the front desk and I move my knees to the side as he walks by even though there’s more than enough space for him to pass. There’s grass stains on his tennis shoes and he smells like laundry detergent. He asks the desk lady where the bathroom is and she says, “Down the hall and turn left,” which is good because I was wondering where it was but didn’t want to ask. I silently thank the guy in my head as he slips out the waiting room door. Should I go now too? But then I’d be walking right behind the hat dude, and that’d be too awkward. He might think I’m following him. How much space would I put in between us? I don’t want to be walking too slow. I cross my legs and sink down in my chair. I’ll wait a little. 

The lady sitting across from me makes a sniffling sound and I glance in her direction. It looks like she’s crying but all she’s doing is reading a People magazine. I tilt my head to the right. Secrets Surfaced: Jack and Haley Tell the Truth of Their Divorce. I guess that could make someone cry. The lady wipes her eye with her thumb, a swoop from the corner up. I wonder how her hot pink nails don’t poke her eyeball out. She inhales another sniff as her hands grip the sides of the magazine, and I suddenly fear for the thin paper at the mercy of her manicure. There’s a pale strip of skin in the shape of a band on her bare ring finger, oddly out of place with the rest of her tan, almost bronze complexion. She wipes her tears again. The smudge of her eyeliner looks like a bat wing. 

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from my mom: Happy Birthday honey!  I almost laugh. My birthday was two months ago. Not that I care. I don’t expect my mom to remember things about me when she’s down in Florida getting drunk with her new husband and eating alligator tail by the beach. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in Boston trying to get through my junior year of college while having to go to therapy sessions every Saturday. Not that I have anything better to do on Saturdays. 

The door to the waiting room swings open and I move my knees again so the guy with the Red Sox hat can sit back down even though the space in between us hasn’t shrunk at all in the past five minutes. This time he smells sweet, like strawberry. I accidentally make eye contact with him. His green irises are surrounded by red. A flash of gray peeks out of his pocket as he passes by. I move my knees back to how they were. 

I guess I should go to the bathroom now. No one else has gotten up so far. I take a quick glance around then brace my feet to stand up. Wait. Should I take my purse? If I bring it to the bathroom and there’s not a hook to hang it on I’d have to set it on the back of the toilet or trash can. Gross. Holding it as I pee is too weird … I might even accidentally drop it as I get toilet paper. Though, having my purse be exposed to the germs of the lavatory isn’t nearly as bad as someone stealing it. I glance around again. My special occasion mint chocolate chip gum is worth too much. I’ll take it to the bathroom. 

Movement by the door catches my eye. A man in a black sweatshirt extends his legs out, propping one foot on top of the other and conveniently blocking my way to the door. There’s a pretty manageable gap of space between his huge feet and the person sitting across from him, but I don’t want to risk squeezing through. Should I just step over him? Or is that too weird and blatantly impolite? I could ask him politely to move them, but what would I say? Excuse me, sir. Can you please move your legs? Or what about a simple excuse me with a smile? Why are his legs so long? How is he so tall? Is it genetics, or is it calcium and protein? I lean back into my chair, suppressing a sigh of defeat. I hope he used his height for good and played basketball when he was younger.

A soft, high-pitched giggle turns my attention to the left corner of the room where a pink-haired girl my age is smiling down at her phone. I realize with a start that she’s in my Principles of Management class. How had I not recognized her before? She’s the girl who sits on the same row as me, but she’s more on the left and I’m more on the right. And she’s always surrounded by her boyfriend and other friends. I usually sit by myself. 

I feel hot embarrassment rise to my cheeks as I realize that she now knows I need to go to therapy. How pathetic. Actually, what am I talking about? She probably doesn’t even know who I am. I’m not the type of person people pay attention to, let alone remember. All I do in Management class is sit there and stare at the wall.

I stare down at my bitten fingernails, picturing my drab, plain brown hair that can never hold a curl, and I can’t help but wonder, what is she doing here? Why does she need therapy? Doesn’t she have her boyfriend and plenty of other friends to lean on for support? What could possibly be wrong in her life? 

She reaches up and brushes some of her pink hair behind her shoulder, and I notice remnants of a black-purple bruise on her neck, only faintly covered by a crusty and worn job of foundation. There’s another ring of bruises imprinted on her wrist. Then I remember that she and her boyfriend haven’t been sitting together in class for the past week. Her boyfriend stayed in the same row as me, but she moved down to the front, close to the door. I watch as her hair falls back over her shoulder and droops around her collarbone in a soft wave of dehydrated pink. I look away. 

“Marigold Mayner? You’re up next, Dr. Theeber is ready in his office.” The desk lady motions to the other door in the waiting area, which leads to Dr. Theeber’s room. I grab my purse and stand up. I hate my name. What were my parents thinking? It makes me sound like a bright, flamboyant flower when really I’m anything but. And what’s with the alliteration? 

I walk towards the door, preparing myself for my first therapy session with Dr. Theeber, who has bean bag chairs in his office and, by what I have observed, takes advantage of the fact that he’s the only so-called effective therapist around by running his facility like a doctor’s office where he takes too long with each person and his patients wait for an hour in a small waiting room with strangers, becoming more anxious and aware of the people around them, which causes every patient to come into his room more grumpy and stressed than usual, making his small amount of effort seem effective and in return keeps everyone coming back. The desk lady gives me a small, encouraging smile as I twist the handle and step through the door. 

I still need to pee.

pretty little doll

sometimes i get a little too delusional 

i stop being just another pretty thing to look at sometimes i think and

sometimes it ends with me crying yelling begging

for it to stop it doesnt 

instead we see a pretty little doll

stuck in a picture perfect life with gorgeous clothes and bewitching friends

instead of a little boy who can breathe 

and feel 

no no 

not a boy, silly

a doll

 just another baby alive dolls for you to play with

discard at you convenience 

just another pretty little doll waiting for you to pick it up 

and play with it 

another pretty little doll waiting for you to dress it up in pretty little doll clothes

for it to never use its pretty little doll brain in fear that that pretty little doll brain 

will tell it to jump off its pretty little doll chair located at the top of the pretty doll shelf

yes there is a shelf for pretty dolls and no it doesnt matter

we all end up under your bed at the end of our time

no matter how pretty we are 

no matter how much we cost you will use us and then get rid of us 

i dont know why I still try

so i sit with my silly little thoughts

and my goofy little smile

waiting for you to pick me up from my pretty little doll chair

by cherrypie

tick tick tick

most poems have a rhythm

most poems have a beat

most things do

yet this doesnt

you read has if you are running out of

breath

like if you lungs will collapse if you even take a break

yet all you can do is just talk

tick tick tick

the sounds of the clock

it goes faster and faster

more and more people stand up 

more and more grades are put in

more and more roles get casted

yet here i stand

tick tick tick

stuck in time

stuck in the same place

what if i did peak

what if

what if

what if

thats all that infects my mind

possibilities yet no time

tick tick tick

that god forsaken clock 

it wont stop

it wont shut up

i wanna cry

i wanna yell

i wanna 

tick tick tick

its mocking me

speeding up its ticks

telling me to move fast 

to sped up

but i wont

i cant

tick tick tic-

SILENCE

...

its quite

not a noise in the world

that dumb clock telling me to hurry up

just gone

then why do i feel so alone

my name

by Anonymous 

My name means wisdom, though I’ve never felt particularly wise. I've been told I’m bright all my life but so has every girl with A’s in her classes. Bright, but not outstanding enough to be recognized, just like my name. Good, but not pretty enough to be differentiated from any other girl with my name. Just plain normal. 

Unlike other kids, my parents didn’t name me after a beloved great ancestor, or a name from the Bible; my name comes from a few hours of searching on generic baby websites. I don’t understand it. How could they come across my name and think that’s the one, when 251,389 other girls' parents had the exact same thought. There’s no one to swoon or excite over my name. There’s never a substitute teacher struggling with the pronunciation because they see it on every roster of every class. 

Our family doesn’t have traditions of all the girls having the same beautiful middle name like ‘Marie’ or ‘Amelia,’ no. We have the tradition of all the girl’s not having one. Nothing. Nothing following my name, nothing in front of my last name. Nothing to even out the blandness of one of the most common names in the world. 

I would rather be named something like Charlotte, it's the 4th most popular name in the US after all. Saying Charlotte is like pouring molasses, slow, warm, and comforting. My name is harsh and sharp, like someone is yelling every time they utter the word. 

My name isn’t like white or black which are so often seen. My name is blue like the sky. Visible from anywhere in the world, hanging over all our heads. So common and generic people tend to no longer pay attention.