The Psychiatrist

She sits at the opposite

side of the desk

with a look on her face

I can only describe as grotesque.

I thought I was here for her

to inquire about my wellbeing,

but she is asking me questions

that I find leading.

She doesn’t care for

what I have to say,

it’s like I am just a nuisance

that is ruining her day.

She keeps asking me

why I haven’t got a job,

with an attitude that is

making it hard for me not to sob.

I try to explain what is

happening in my head

and how I find it hard

to sleep when I go to bed.

Her answer for all this is

to increase my medication,

but I tell her I am not

interested in sedation.

I thought that I had

come here to talk

not to be left drugged up

and barely able to walk.

I hadn’t expected her

to have all the solutions,

but I didn’t think I would

leave the victim of persecution.

turned on floor lamp near sofa
Photo by Ricardo Esquivel on Pexels.com

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