For the Well Intentioned Folks Who Say Writing Is Therapeutic
       

Write, they say, like a band-aid
when writing feels like the wound.
Write, they say, like a toddy
of honey, spirits, and blood.
Write, they say, to me gently
in a coo that curdles the milk.
I spit in my cup and my handshake
a pact I've made with the world.
This is the hour I greet my life
with the buck-eyed bravado
of road kill, and I don't care
about endings anymore.
I just end them
and fuck you.

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Copyright © 2018 Catherine Bresner All rights reserved
from the empty season
Diode Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission