my therapist folds his hands.
i don't lie down on his leather couch, head resting on its arm
like in the comics or whatever.
no, i sit upright, stiff, fiddling with my hands, looking away.
it's hard to feel comfortable as i talk about my discomfort;
as i quietly explain the pit in my stomach, the tears behind my eyes which just don't leave.
there are some things that are infinitely easier to type out
in a paragraph of prose,
a fit of fancy,
it's easy to title this.
i can't say it, though.
breathe in, 2, 3, 4,
hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
exhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
it helps, for a moment,
but only a moment as i'm alone again and i know that everyone hates me why am i here what am i doing why can't i do anything i'm so stupid so useless nobody wants me i should just--
something has to change.
cbt hasn't been helping much. i think i should probably go on meds. not sure.