Don’t try to fix me. I’m not broken.

Noise machines.

Brief and quiet stares.

Forced tomorrows.

Magazine pages flipping between nervous fingers.

Sips of water to drown the sorrow.

Here I wait.

For my therapist to peak her head from her purposely decorated office.

Impatiently waiting to hear me utter the news of the past week.

Watching the clock tick it’s tocks.

Copay please?

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