My therapist asks “how are you feeling today” and I can’t find an answer that sounds right. Any word I say is like a poet spewing spit-covered mashed potatoes on the crowd at an open mic. It happens in the middle of a poem. A line about the moon splits in half and switches to spitting. The crowd would frown and clap, unsure of what’s real and what’s for show. Even I wouldn’t know. I keep all my emotions encased in green jello so I can poke them and watch them jiggle. Bounce, bounce, wiggle wiggle. Plus, they make a convenient snack! 

The therapist asks again— just in different words—and I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s like I’m a dog in a car. I’m on the way to the vet and I know it, but I can’t stop it.” 

I can’t open the door and tuck and roll as I don’t have thumbs. All I can do is howl. The radio plays some pop songs from 2013 and I keep howling over the autotune, but they think I’m just singing along.