Maxwell That I Do Not Fully Understand Yet

“He acts like a little boy, but he’s really very complex.”
—8½

I am too aware not to be manipulative
With the poem, I say to the therapist
Who is not in love with me: she does not fully understand yet.
And I know it is… And I know it is
Very grey, between words, the things we think we are
And are not—without blame or responsibility,
Outside cause and effect and the impact
We have on everyone’s lives, because as she knows,
I am the saviour. Though I have stopped saying it
To the white coats as the more
We share, the more they hold it against you:
She was so controlling! I said about an ex. And this latest analyst
Here, replied, OK. But we mustn’t forget
That you too, are partial
To some dominance, aren’t you. Which is unfair!
Because when I told her that—with my shameful voice—she seemed
To shift in her seat; she seemed to see
That boy from the early nineties
Who is now in the shadows—the white space—like all our more difficult work
And truth, and past; as I think
I even brought him back to life then too: But I am angry! And I want to kill!
And it is justified! My potential
Victim being left
In the white space, too—not because I am decent, but because
I am purposely leaving things open, poetically… She said,
You can be angry, but you mustn’t act on it—even though
I see, in the shadows, at night, a truth from my past…
That is libellous. So I guess that adds to the poem’s aura?
And it is all on me though, babe…? She smirks at that. It isn’t love:
Fine! It is all on me though, Doc—to know it all
And to not say anything. And to do all the shadow work
Alone, whilst propping myself up—all alone—too. Look!

Myself
Propped up!

This gets more than a smirk: Cheap! she says, laughing.
At the end of the session again too, boy child. But at least it isn’t a bombshell
Like last week, about dominance
And childhood shadows. And your love for me! Does she wink?
She knows how to shadow her face. But I bite anyway: Well, what about the nineties
And the fact you see that dead boy in me… before I shallow
And stop myself, because I am aware—and perhaps
Manipulative—but not unfair: I don’t really mention the nineties.
And she was young! And she was so controlling! I say again
As I leave, knowing that she’s doing a good job
Of seeing right through me and of seeing past
The boyfriend that she let die, and the past
That I am also trying to let die, as it all
Slides off, eventually—in the same way
That it’s a good job
That I see right through her, and myself—and the reasons
Why I’m propped up all alone
Too, as I am still
Processing the aura left behind
By the shadows of my own past: my own
Aware, though manipulated—dominated—inner boy
Child that I do not fully understand yet.

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