In response to everything I had written, he had composed a poem. It was a truly awful poem—way worse than the ones in Real Change. “Let’s eat some dirty strawberries” rhymed with “This psychologist is smart, I’m just a mass of dishonesties.” “I don’t love you, you hate me.” “Come dance with me again.” “Writer queen whom I admire, fallen analyst”—I logged out, my heart pounding. He hadn’t refuted anything, or reassured me about anything. Was he saying I was right?
