Author: Scherezade Siobhan

Scherezade Siobhan is a psychologist, writer and maker of the world's finest Spanish omelettes. Her writing has been published in The NewerYork, Black & Blue Writing, Cordite Poetry Review, and Fur-Linedghettos. She is the editor of Cyberhex Press & the author of Bone Tongue (Thought Catalog Books 2015). Follow her on Tumblr and Twitter.

deja raconte

can i substitute all references to having hetero-conventional sex
with a man as *experiencing a penis* in my dissertation?
please advise. in the empty chair technique, i make the patients
think they are debating Godzilla. this is how to gestalt your relics.
all my therapy notes are tiny rabbits teeming to massacre your Id.
being a polyglot clinician means i can now misinterpret your
childhood in 5 different languages. in psychoanalysis they will
either blame your problems on your genitals or your parents
or your parents’ genitals. i turned in my synopsis late because
i was too busy pulling doves out from my belly’s grotto. every time
a father left me, i brought home a maimed animal. transference
is why my husband always says “i am coming” before he leaves
the house. the dean calls me the psych ward pit bull & maybe i
would scalp flesh off the dead to feed myself. my incisors whetted
against each parapraxis, at the altar i vowed – with this ring,
                                                                               i thee bled.

Remission

To get better does not mean it goes away.
No. It means, you have finally learned how
to jamb a fist in the pacifist. Learned to digest
before it devours. Supersonic. Metabolic.
This browser-hatched brainstorm. To write,
to wreck, to retch, to requiem – the cortex
& vent; the sap of each syllable. To say,
suleiman; you are a dagger dancing on my
jugular. Each cell is coronated as carousel
of something tectonic. Something detonating
its headwound against the hospital bed. I,
hemorrhage in rabbit sized lily ponds. Some
-thing flint-toothed is scratching at the ratchet
of a red-roomed stupor. When can we start looking
for survivors instead of heroes? Here, this body.
Hear, this body. Its electric blanket. Its box guitar.
Its scissored chords. I am 13 different kinds of
amnesia. All busted lips. A barstool turned crystal
-ball. A decade of curs locked up behind my eyes.
The technique sharpens its occam’s razor on your
fingers. The technique is to lie down and pretend as
if you were lifeless. The technique is a paradox.
Self to save or spend. This. I don’t need to pretend.

Gralewski’s theory:

       every tumble, bruise, broken leg or arm is the price for disrupting some hidden
       order. instant punishment.

the year of eremite;
a tampered misanthrope

cuffed in contrite
withhold the purple
dribble of the prototype

how he wives me – a cudgel
there is karma; cut-lap
cavernous; stomping feet

over the black haw & zinc light
you will batten; a pattern
of impaired will

i, sixth sense stifling the landfill

monsieur misspells his departures
as “god-bye”

all is held
because of hurt
not despite