there's a woman with a face. that looks just like mine.
she put me into therapy.
even says she loves me.
she put me into therapy,
after me explaining explicitly,
the ways in which i hurt.
the ways in which i hurt mentally.

this woman. 
i appreciate what she did.
for i have friends who have women
(not women with their faces, but women nonetheless)

who ignore that they have the comprehension to put a name to the ways in which they feel-
(depressed. low. ready to let life go)

for silly reasons like that they might have learned what it's called on the digital spherical wheel.

so, 
this woman.

that put me into therapy.
this woman.
is the same one that adds to the pain she tried to rid from me.

my mind is confused.

how do you look at me, oh woman?
and just walk away?
for goodness sake! i have your face!

i have your face, 
and you kindly sent me to another woman 
( i don't take it for granted)
for pills and grace.
and she gives me them,
and you try to dress me in frills and lace.
and tell me not to cut my hair.

you told me everything on your mind for years and can't look at me in the summer.
how in the hell could i possibly ever recover?

not even when i go back to the other woman,
with the room with the AC and the comfy chair. 
the woman with the pills and the grace and the wild hair.
not even she can help me repair.
not even she who encourages me that who i am is okay.

you used to try to do that.
i used to think you did a good job.
but if you did i don't think you would be a woman with a face.
just a woman with our face.

you tried though.
and it pains me to say it,
to even realize it,
(because i feel indebted to you)
but trying is not enough.

i wish i could write you a letter and address it:
'dear woman with a face'
and then say,
'i loved you heavily.
i even love you now.
but it's hurting me that i think i know what will become of our fate.
you see, i am thinking of severing the already severed.'

but you would cry.
so i won't send you that note.
but i will take all necessary action in invisible quotes.

i hate making you cry, woman.
but i've done alot of that.
and i don't think i know how to stop.
and you don't know it but i will forever resent that fact.

oh woman. 
who is now strange to me.
how have we shared our hearts before?
the flesh and blood.
i have your flesh and blood.
on my face.
even in my veins.
but now its a sort of wicked pain.
to look in the mirror and see you.

my hero turned villain.
and what a demise.
the only ways in which we speak now is how we surmise.
how we surmise and pick at each others thoughts.
because we can't even speak.

everything is now a feeble attempt to communicate.
when before we would SCREAM .
when before we would SHARE. 
when before we could sit and help one another with our HAIR.

woman with a face. woman with my face.
i miss you. and my heart longs to converse with yours.
but my mind stops me.
because the heart wants what will wrench it out of the chest it belongs in.
the chest in the body that you manifest in.

woman with a face. why couldn't you understand me?
do i not have your face?
everyone says it.
is it perhaps because we hate seeing the ways we are, when we see it in each other?

woman.
at least take your face and keep it.
if it's too hard to live while looking at you,
how much harder would it be to live while looking like you?

© ilifluous