I never let you in

Therapy is not found on this couch, not in this room and definitely not in hollow observations.

Therapy is in your voice rushing through my ears, our comfortable silences and a lust for something more.

It's an appointment that keeps me here. I have no compulsion to spill my secrets to a stranger.

You don't have degrees on your walls or even an imposing oak desk, but when my words are stuck in a quagmire of self-doubt and transitory thoughts, I turn to you.

He tells me to open up, like it's a cardinal sin to not to be emotionally promiscuous.

I never needed to let you in, you were here when I arrived.

He says I hide my loneliness by interacting with anthropomorphised objects. I let him know the lamp thinks he's a bastard.

The ashtray approves of you.

His diagnosis comes with a prescription, lots of -cides and -idiums.

Your diagnosis comes with a prescription too, all Nico and PJ Harvey.

He says he can't see me making any progress.

One day I'll send him your binoculars.