The more I write, the more I feel. My handwriting loops across the page and leaves burn marks on the white, pristine paper.

"It's all in the release, really." the blonde, pretty nurse smiles at me. I resist the urge to yank at her curls until they all lie flat against her head. There was something unnaturally resilient about permed hair, and it made my skin crawl.

"Talk about your triggers." she offers helpfully.

Triggers? You want me to talk about my triggers? A rising resentment takes hold of me.
I'll talk about my triggers. every single one of them. I'll start with the red skirts. It didn't matter what sort, what length. but the red skirts that rose above the knees, that swayed in the wind or to the rhythm of the high-heeled steps, those were especially hard to look at, and even harder to tear my eyes away from. red skirts, red skirts, red hurts. red hurt my eyes and my heart. you want me to talk about my triggers I'll talk about my triggers. red like the veil of anger and irrationality across my vision. the blurring of a face, the fading of a voice. another one. long hair. the curls. the curl of eyelashes stay on track eyes on me deep breaths.

In.
Out.

Out of my way. there's her in a red skirt walking down the hallway. red skirts the damn red skirts. are you alright? i'm okay just remind me to breathe and to smile. there's a lovely smile. thank you. i want to talk about my triggers. now i've started don't stop me please. sometimes, sometimes, it's about the eyes. deep, round, and not mine. the length of the hair. it could be anything. vets are a trigger. dogs are a trigger. the sound of a laugh is a trigger. and i have to stop to think i have to stop to remind myself that the ground is beneath my feet and the sky is above my head and between the numbers 1 to 10 is 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
and

In.
Out.

there's a pain in my chest. just, right there. yes, beneath my heart. it turns the food mush in my mouth to wet cardboard and my limbs to weights. it also turns my face away from the mirror. i am bitter and sour and all things rotten. i am spiralling down that road where the thoughts are not alright and so i have to count again from 1 to 10 but this time the red has taken over and i am clawing, screaming, scratching at his face and his eyes because he must hurt the way i have been hurt and the way i am hurting. his face is a trigger. his love is a trigger.

the nurse walks back
In
"oh, you're done are you?"
yes
"well, time for your next session. let's get some clothes on you. how about this lovely red skirt? you'll look wonderful in it, here let me just take it

Out