Not a poem, but written after she gave me a flower. I wrote this so I could show her how one simple, meaningful gesture messed up my already messed up head. I wanted her to see how things worked. You know, kinda train her, lololol.

WHITE PETALS

Little One Speaks
Even though I'm just six years old, I'm smarter than the other two. I’m the only one who knew we needed to come to therapy today. Flowerchild thinks because she is a teenager, no one can tell her what to do. Flowerchild hates therapy. She hates everything, even her own soul. The Grownup was too tired to drive, too tired to shower, but I cried so long she finally gave in and drove us here. It’s hard when three people all live in one head.

I sit real still behind the sofa in Roxanne’s office. My fingers trace the lines on the Chinese rug and I make them skate like Peggy Fleming. I reach up and tug on my grownup’s sleeve, but she won’t look at me. I need a Kleenex and I’m afraid to ask. Flowerchild gives me her “you better shut-up” eyes. I am afraid of her.

Sniff, wipe. Sniff, wipe. I scrunch up my face and squeeze my eyes tight so my tears won’t drip. I whisper cry so Roxanne can’t hear me. If she knew I was here, she’d give me the biggest box of fluffy tissues, cuz she is very nice for a therapist. And even though she can’t see the way my ponytail swings or hear my shoes click-walk, she knows I live inside my Grownup’s head. She looks at me sometimes and smiles. I wish she’d look right now. I finger skate some more and make Peggy twirl.

Sometimes Roxanne wants to give Flowerchild a green plastic bat to swing at the pillows like she’s mad at the sofa. But Flowerchild never takes it. She’d just smash it on Roxanne’s head. Roxanne gave her a gardenia once, but it was really meant for me. It smelled perfume nice and I loved the thick white petals. They were soft and cool. In the car going home, Flowerchild let me keep it in the visor. I was so happy, a big smile got stuck on my face like the wax clown lips I get at the candy store.

But then Flowerchild turned crabby. She said Roxanne didn’t pick the flower for us, that we got a leftover some other client gave her. Cuz that’s what we are, she said. Leftovers. She grabbed the flower and threw it out the window, and I watched the white petals fly away.

Flowerchild Speaks
I see Little One wiping her nose with the back of her hand and she tries to stay quiet. She knows better than to ask for a Kleenex, the sniveling baby *****. I evil eye her and mouth, no hugs today. She pouts, looks down, and plays with her fingers. Screw her. When she’s fifteen, she’ll understand that touch burns you raw.

My foot is bouncing so hard on the floor that my leg shakes uncontrollably. Roxanne is speaking, but my head is so crowded I can’t hear. Instead, I read her lips. “What’s up with the energy?” she asks. I want to kick the wall, stomp about, take that green bat and smash it over her head. Inside my head I scream, Aren’t I paying you to tell me? JUST FIX ME ! I watch Roxanne watch me and wonder what she’s thinking. I turn away and say nothing.

Grownup is unresponsive. She stares out the window, unwilling to face the past. She floats outside to a safe distance, lands on an oak tree branch, and looks back at us. I tell her she’s useless. Her silence is deafening. I tell her to jump.

Roxanne’s afraid that someday I’ll drive off the bridge, so after each session, she asks us to call when we get home. I know she doesn’t really care if we call or not. We pay her to pretend she cares.

One time after a hard session, Roxanne gave us a gardenia. Little One was so happy and felt so special, I let her put it in the visor on the ride home. But I knew that flower wasn't really for us. I asked Roxanne point blank if it was from her garden. We’d been lied to all our lives so I told Little One the truth.

"Roxanne didn’t pick that. A client gave it to her. Roxanne gave us a used flower. She told us we deserved it, we were worth it. Freakin’ liar, that Roxanne." I took that gardenia, threw it out the window, and watched the stupid petals fly.

Grown Up Speaks
The sun peeks through the blinds of Roxanne's office, creating shadows that bounce across the mint green wall. Between my racing thoughts and the other voices in my head, I fear my mind will snap loose like a tumbleweed driven by the wind. I stare at the oak tree outside the window and see myself swinging on a branch. How can that be.

Little One traces her finger along the pattern of the rug and whimpers while Flowerchild glares at Roxanne. Exhausted by the ongoing chatter and emotional energy these parts of me demand, I sit defeated. I am unable to move or speak. My mind searches for a way to drown out the others, and I sing.

But nobody ever hears him, or the sound he appears to make.
And he never seems to notice, but the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down, and the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning round.

Flowerchild sends the shut-up look to Little One whose eyes grow wide with fear. I am powerless against their anger and sadness, and I look to Roxanne for comfort. Her soothing voice confuses Flowerchild but embraces Little One who hugs herself and rocks.

I’m somewhere in the middle, pressed between these chapters of my life like a faded flower. The day Roxanne gave us the gardenia, I saw my longing for beauty through the eyes of my wounded child and felt the fear of intimacy pound in my raging teen’s heart. But most of all, I saw a future garden where gardenias flourish, love flows and white petals take flight.
© SJN 2001