The thrum of knives on ceramic dishes in the Applebees 

next door cuts through the silence of the therapist's office. My little brother

and I move around—restless—on the squeaky

leather sofa. Lisa asks a question 

but my brain is too swollen to recognize the words. 

I lurch at the sound of my parents’ (my dear parents) 

on the other side of the door. A flurry of tears

fall from my eyelashes to my bare legs, white and chalky 

from gymnastics practice. My brother 

wails the song of a begging 

baby bird, pitiful and hungry for answers. 

Don’t Say It. My body shudders and jerks as my brother

kicks his legs repeatedly 

against the couch we sit on. His voice

whispers through the buzzing of the space heater.

I look to Lisa. Don’t Say It. My mouth fills with gibberish

and the gibberish spills out through the gap in my front teeth

and my clenched jaw and my flared nostrils. Don’t Say It.

A knock on the door. Lisa stands. Times up. 

And I don’t say it,

I never do, 

and I never go back to therapy.

Edited by Tia Douglas and Elisabeth Kay