Memory is a tricky thing
"This is how I feel today,"
I said
as I sat on the couch across from Wendy
who was poised on her chair
yellow legal pad in hand, pen at the ready.
I held my hand out to her
fingers curled tight in a fist;
my nails, short but sharp,
digging crescent moons
into my fleshy palm.

It meant:
I don't want to talk
or share with you
or let you in
or let me out.

I held it in front of me,
a shield and a warning,
and held it firm until my arm
grew tired and sore, the muscles burning
and nerves on fire.

It's been eight years since
I've sat across from Wendy,
every week; Thursdays at 4.
And while I still remember how
my knuckles turned white
from force, fat and skin
pulled tight and taunt across
the back of my hand,
I can't remember
how it felt.