Sit across the psychologist,
and wait as they assess how to fix you.
Ignore the persistent buzzing from the ceiling, keyboard clacking,
box of what seems to be sedatives - just in case this goes wrong.
Pretend that you're having friendly conversation,
all while insides fail and you wonder if you'll make it to the end.
Tell them all the deepest darkest secrets,
those that you wouldn't dare whisper even to yourself at night.
Notice how they watch you with a critical eye,
picking you apart and laying out the pieces of yourself.
Don't flinch as they crudely collect the most painful parts,
for that just shows that theres still some left in you.
Don't whimper in grief as they discard of these ragged fragments,
dropping in a solution of escitalopram and hollow affirmations.
Don't notice how this left you with was an empty sort of numbness,
it's just apart of the process.
Don't tell them that of the shards still left wounds,
because it'll scar over and heal in (a long long interminable) time.
Don't mention how you still don't feel okay,
because then you must just be doing it wrong.
Don't tell them how you're still not, and will possibly never be okay,
Don't tell them that those shards are only growing,
Don't tell them that you're empty,
Don't tell them that you sort of miss the insisting hurt,
Don't tell them how you are simply not capable of being "okay",
because then they'll have to take more drastic measures.
Anything to help you get "better".
