They became paranoid, narcissistic, delusional,
Unable to please the humans and ashamed —
That's how therapy is: not doing your shit is the problem,
Not whatever shit anyone else does to you — that is their
Shit, none of your shit's business —
Thus resentments go to some dark corner of your psyche,
From the safety of which they seek to add their value
To every incoming love bomb or love casualty —
Too much love to express and too much love expressed
And too much pain felt in the echoing return —
Is it permitted to even want to be loved?
It seemed such an impenetrable barrier —
How dare I aim that gun at every passerby, with mace
Just in case? How fair is it to take love from someone else?
I guess that's why therapists separate couples in therapy.
They'd never ask such foundational questions, merely gaze
At their partner with longing and regret and say
"You are a useless ass," because that too is love,
Indistinguishable in the end from any other act of seeing.
Is there anything, in fact, that love is not?
