When she tells me that it's bad
I want to laugh in her face
she calls me pessimistic, stubborn
I call it realism.
I can change all I want
I can choke down all the pills
I can write in journals until my fingers cramp and the edges of my palm and pinky are stained with black with ink
it doesn't change the fact that when I leave I will go home to an empty apartment
one that I pay for but can't truly call "mine"
one that encases me in the safety of its walls and tempts me with the subductiveness of my bed
it doesn't change the fact that I am nothing, will go down in history as nothing,
and will be remembered as another case file on her desk and a prescription for medications given out like candy

--I'll still be me when I leave I'm struggling with that