Worlds apart and oceans deep,
The sand that’s stuck between my feet,
I’d rather be in the Australian heat
Than to sit on this soft therapy seat.

This woman is a conman in disguise,
I hate feeling feelings so I just lie,
So that one day I won’t have to reside,
in this therapy room with the world not on my side.

She asks me questions I’ve heard before,
I close my mouth to speak no more,
This question is hard to answer for sure,
She’s pressing on spots that are sore.

I have no remarks so I just stare,
It’s too warm in here and in there,
I’m uncomfortable so I fidget with my hair,
She asks about my eating habits, just share.

I don’t want to say what I’m thinking about,
She takes a guess, I say yes, but not quite I silently shout,
she says open up to leave the roundabout,
But of this room I just want to be out.

I was put here against my own will,
Pressing tightly on my wounds so the blood will not spill,
I don’t need some stranger climbing up my hill,
of family secrets and self secrets and whispers so shrill.

“Is there anything else you want to address?”
I shake my head no but I don’t know my no needs to be yes,
My brain taking toll on this web of mess,
I’m here in this room I may as well confess.

But I can’t make myself do it, there’s too much I can’t say,
I don’t know how to express it, maybe some other day,
But it feels weird and illegal to openly pray,
To tell this woman she’s right, I’m not okay.


© Waiteing