My Therapy

A recount of experience, in a sense.

I walk in my own footprints

For I’ve been here before; many times.

The cold white floor and sickly walls are my

Breaking point.

The brink of insanity, unbearably close;

I can

Almost

Taste.

Still, these rancid rooms embrace

Results that flow from me

‘Till half past three.

They poke and prod until

I fall asleep, and then they creep inside.

Softly here and there they tread, embrace my hate, caress my fear, but

Do they not hear their names? That it is them I fear?

…And then I leave.

The reaper’s gone, I feel raw, undone

By old feelings I must see, I

Their exquisite experiment, once a week

Happily, or not so free

In my ‘therapy’.