They come in waves
I told my therapist
during a rainy afternoon on Tuesday.

Waves?

Waves of
police knocking on my door
of punches thrown between the lovers
hanging on to broken threads
of lies and cheating and drinking and drugs

they come in waves

The man looks me up and down.
I'm trying to hide my ******* poking beneath my old t-shirt
I'm okay I'm okay I was asleep I'm not a witness I'm not their parent I'm not their manager
They should be mine.

Crashing in uncontrollably these instances of depression, is that the word?
consume me

leave me hanging

left to dry
then forgotten
folded away neatly into a locked drawer

the tide is soft and calming,
eerily awaiting the next set of
waves.