The clock ticks
She’s stiff as a stick.
She counts the seconds going by
Pressing her fingers into her thigh.
She feels the woman urging her to talk
She watched her skin turn white as chalk.
Her mother forces her to go
Her counselor thinks it’s good
But her recovery is slow
And here she never felt understood.

The metal chair squeaks at the girl
She wonders why the girl is mute
She wants to comfort her, pat her hand
But instead takes her pen to write a note.
She has good intentions, she wants to help
What she doesn’t realise is she cannot help
The girl trapped inside the little girl
That’s sitting right in front of her.

These two minds don’t think alike
She won’t listen anyway
To some of the strategies and advice
Offered to her night and day.
She has one side only, her dark side
That she is quite happy with.
What is the point of getting better
When her life will be nothing but bitter?