The Tissue Box

You shuffle into the room,

reluctantly shake hands

(yours are sweaty. 

She pretends not to notice),

and you sit.

Awkwardly adjust and avoid

that weird all-knowing smile

The leather complains so

you don't fidget anymore

(you're not comfy yet,

but you've decided it's

not important).

She asks the first question,

a simple

 "How are you?"

and you swallow.

Hard.

You answer absently,

some bullshit answer about

stress at work and missing 

your ex, but you can't

take your eyes off

that goddamn tissue box

on the center of the table.

She asks you to talk more about

your ex, but you barely

hear her because 

the tissue box is laughing.

It says,

"By the time this forty-five minute session

is over,

you're going to cry."