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She leads me upstairs,
Along a corridor painted too brightly,
up to a yellow door.
Inside, the room is also yellow, but paler.

I don't know how I feel
about myself, my future
and I don't know why
my parents hate me.
I don't have any dreams and
I don't know what I want.
So don't ask.

An armchair, for her.
A sofa, for me.
I sit
and my eyes glance nervously
searching out the nearest clock.

I can't bear it when your eyes
burn holes in me until I respond
by making up an answer
to the question you deem so important
to my recovery.

On the wall, ticking, round and white,
I will focus my attention on it for the next hour
when I'm not playing with my bracelet
or twiddling my eyebrow ring.

I am somwehere else
and I hear you talking
but I'm drifting
because I can't stomach any more
of this session.

She asks me how I've been.
A neutral response-
what more did she expect?
Questions. Silence. Mutterings.
For fifteen minutes, she then describes me to myself.
I nod.
Same time next week?