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Because I was young and breathed, trembling, and cried too much, too often And I asked my mother permission to bury me They stuck me in many many cars And told me to get better, however and whatever getting better meant to me. And there I sat In the back seat, shotgun, driver’s seat of my Cereal-scarred mini-van, I discovered therapy and hated it for its obsolescence, because I didn’t need a doctor to  tell me I was sick, I needed the cure Which no one told me I could have, because I “Needed to find it for myself.” “Wasn’t all that bad, really.” They saw my sins written up to my elbows and The longer