JACKIE HAGAN THERAPY From the first baby lick of thought he's looked at life in shades of colours you don't know the names of. He has a face like a raised eyebrow. He takes charge like a short man with a big dog but he's tall, wants you to fling your insides out, wants you to take the bait and open the box and talk, talk, talk: The stark bald roar of the stuff words weren't made for; The stomach churning purple gunk, bellowing jelly flop confessions of feelings stuck, like the words to a prayer you thought you'd forgot, like a song that you hate that reminds you of home. You try to make your words look like something you know, but the gap between your brain and tongue is growing and he won't let you take a breath. The depth he'll sink his hands into, pinches your words between finger and thumb, crumbles what you meant to say, tweezers some sort of gist. He grips the skin of sounds and makes a sense of pilfered fears, of forced half thoughts, sponges up your tears into flow charts of that you value and keep secret. You smile and take a tissue as he scrapes the inside out with a unbitten biro. The pulp of your problems is spread and picked at, picked at, picked at, until you add up into a flawless sum, the equation of why you're so fucked up is complete. He makes you neater, sleeker and discrete and he's happy. You close the door and leave and think that you forgot to say "that wasn't what I meant" Back to TUT Samples Back to The Ugly Tree The Library