First Psych-Ed Assessment, Age Four
Diagnosis is a funny thing.
Feeding your printer
paper molehills, it spits
out unchecked boxes
perfect squares rimmed in grey. They salivate for pen ink.
Symptoms are arranged
numerically, like
we’ll start out with something you don’t think
is too fucked
then move to something that makes you feel small:
so small you are a black-fly
glued to sliding doors
knowing space does not belong to you,
knowing when you claim it
your mother might prod you & say
this is not an appropriate time;
your pacing makes me nervous.
You are seven when she
reprimands you, limbs malleable, your externalities
pretzeled into neat boxes marked always,
marked shame —
a bloodied weight
crawling in blisters down your throat,
tincturing sternum —
& you are sixteen, not knowing where you
begin, where the world ends, what you mask &
what you have forgotten you ever had to,
asphyxiating pencils, shading boxes halfway.
Wondering does a symptom still count if I
beat it out of me? If I mutilated it
so many years ago
the memory has begun to fold back in on itself?
Nowadays you find it funny:
you only learned watching others could make
you truly nervous
when you learned that by watching others
you might discover everything
you had once
done wrong.