Another wave goodbye out of an additional office
With an over-comfortable sinking couch
And decorations hiding the purpose of the room,
When the room is there for torture.
"Have you had suicidal thoughts?"
"Is there any history of drug or alcohol abuse?"
"Do you feel like hurting yourself or someone else?"
The questions are always the same.
And according to routine, I politely answer with a "Yes."
It's a boring but easy task
Until they approach that one single question,
"Why do you cut yourself?"
When it is me who should ask.
Every time there's that lingering silence
And he or she looks up at me from their paper
But as usual, I am unable to answer.
Why do I cut myself?
I want to say, "Hell if I know,"
But that's just it. I do know,
But it's never the response they want to hear.
I start with saying that I enjoy the sight of blood.
"Hmm... ever consider becoming a doctor?"
...is what each one has said. And no, I don't.
Then I say that pain helps me sleep when I'm restless.
But each answer never seems to be the one they're looking for.
Maybe if they could just tell me the answer
Because I'm apparently not the one who knows!
"Do you do it at times you feel numb?"
I suppose that used to be true when I was younger.
But as I evolved, so did the habits.
I tell them that and they basically ask the same thing.
"What do you feel when you cut yourself?"
That's when I catch myself saying,
"I feel amazing," very rudely, practically screaming,
"What the Hell do you think?!"
And the cycle goes on and on with reworded questions.
"Mhm. Yeah. I know," anything to skip me through
All the pointless advise I've heard before.
I used to listen of course, until none of it worked.
So now I end the session with a slight interruption,
"I hope you realize that I do not feel any of this anymore.
I recognized that cutting doesn't solve a thing."
Yep, go on and smile.
I'll return the favor with a handshake
And walk out of the door with a "Thank you."
Then I never look back.
Oh therapist, I wish I could tell you
That this is the real world
That scars and pain are a part of life
But sadly, I'm not the one who's there to give advise.
Lie. Lie. Lie. Then maybe lie again.
Unfortunately that's the only way to get me out of being an outpatient.
I can't stay forever, it'll take me longer than a lifetime
To end it, even for the slightest chance.
'This is my body and this is who I am.'
But on the final day, instead of saying that,
I announce my 'accomplishments' to the room.
"Thank you so much for everything.
My life has changed and I will miss all of you."
Oh, all the lies...
And then another wave goodbye.