He leans back slow with his pen on pause,
nods like a saint while ignoring my flaws.
I say “I’m drowning,” he says “Go on,”
while sketching my corpse with a perfect yawn.
His glasses flash like a signal flare,
but there’s nothing but fog and recycled air.
He scribbles loops on his little chart,
probably mapping the weight of my heart.
The therapist keeps nodding, head on repeat,
like he’s counting the cracks in the soles of my feet.
He smiles when I scream, then circles a name–
but it’s not mine, and it’s not sane.
He asked me once what color I bleed,
then underlined “delusional need.”
His clock ticks loud like a funeral dirge,
and his pulse syncs up when my thoughts surge.
The couch sags deeper every week,
swallowing words I forget to speak.
He said, “Progress is a slow decay,”
and marked my soul as halfway gray.
I flipped the table once, just to see,
if he’d react to the unhinged me.
He said, “This is good. This means you feel.”
Then offered a mint with a fucking seal.
Now I speak in riddles just for spite,
he still nods like I’m his delight.
But I saw his file when the lights went black–
it said “Too late. No coming back.”