this office is nicer than the last.
the couches are soft
probably from all the different people
who have been here before me.
the sweaty palms, tight grips,
white-knuckled
hands
that had sessions before this one
today.
she asks me how I'm feeling
I say I don't know.
I have been taught to lie about all this,
to hold it all in.
but her eyes say something different,
she can tell I'm lying by the way my voice goes up in pitch.
she puts pen to paper as I sit in silence,
so I grab a tissue and wipe my nose
for no reason at all.
she looks up at me again
like a grandmother to a child
and asks me again:
how are you feeling?
