It feels just like school
She's grading every thing I say
Scribbling away on her clipboard
And giving the stock - standard nod
To prove she's still listening
I'm still talking
Mixing outrageous fabrications
Into hard truths
Woven seamlessly
Bouncing both counterparts off eachother
It's quite a tale
She gives monosyllabic confirmation
That she's heard it all before
But her pen movements are picking up pace
And are far more jagged than before
The lights are too bright
The air conditioning set too low
And the back of the chair is reclined too far
To give the illusion of comfort
I concentrate on her poorly executed perm
Snakey spirals emerging from her scalp
Half dead and hissing viciously
Tight, tight, tight
And too orange
I'd hate to touch
Lest I become tangled
Or they constrict, and catch me in a vice grip
Her voice frightens me
Amplifies her so-called "feelings of lousiness"
Trying to ignore the fact
She can't just call it what it is
Suffering far too many symptoms
For any one label
Bottles of pills and pages of mood diaries
That don't do a thing
Except to hollow me out
As opposed to stabilise.
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