She hands me a piece of paper.

“Think of the mean words

people have said to you lately.

Pick the one that hurts the most.”

She opens a box of colored pencils.

“Have a word in mind?”

I nod.

“Use it in a drawing.”

Using gray and metallic silver pencils,

my strokes slowly form a shape, and

some shading pulls your eyes

right to the red.

Dr. Woodn’t-You-Like-to-Know

gives my work a sideways glance.

I use my free arm to shield it.

“Eyes on your own work, Doc.”

She tries to hide a laugh

and ends up snorting.

Jagged edges form letters,

and I keep going.

I lose track of time

and don’t realize

how hard I’m pressing down until

one of the pencils snaps in half.

The doctor cups her hands over mine.

I stop and look down at the paper.

I’m shocked by my drawing.

A fish cut open

with its guts oozing out

and blood spelling THING.

BIG OL’ FAT THING

I look up at Doc,

who’s all quiet and calm.

The drawing didn’t freak her out

like it did me.

“All five of us were home, and

we decided to watch a movie.

I was actually enjoying

being with my family for a change.

Then came a beach scene

with a fat girl

spilling out of her bathing suit.

‘Look at that big ol’ fat thing,’

someone said, and

I pretended not to hear.

“But later, in bed,

I buried my head in my pillow

and cried myself to sleep,

hearing ‘Look at that big ol’ fat thing’

over and over.”

“Who said it?” Doc asks.

I pick up the couch pillow.

Hug it.

Tears sting and well in my eyes,

then run down my cheeks.

“Mom.”

Sometimes shock breaks

all the words out of you

like candy from a piñata.

“I think my mom hates me,” I begin.

“And I hate thinking that, so

I make myself think about

the times she was nice to me.

Like when I had chicken pox in first grade

and Mom curled up in bed with me and

gently scratched my back until I fell asleep.

I remember Mom teaching me

how to write haiku.

I remember she gave me

the stuffed rabbit with bunny slippers

that she had as a child.

That was when Nana died

and I couldn’t stop crying.”

I guess I cling to those moments

like a drowning girl to a life preserver

whenever Mom’s words

gut me like a fish.

WHAT I CARRY

If there were a scale in the office,

I’d be tempted to step on it.

I feel twenty pounds lighter.

Sometimes when you’re nauseated,

the only way to feel better is to hurl.

And it’s as if I’ve puked up

all the sick feelings

I swallowed that movie night.

“I think you could use a break.”

Doc leaves and comes back with water.