sometimes when my therapist asks me

about myself

I am tempted to tell her that I am someone more;

more impressive, more important.

sometimes when she asks me a question, I just sit and stare

at my therapist

because it had never occurred to me

before

that the thoughts in my head

did not always live there

or, if they did

they didn’t used to be so

angry

and as I sit there and realize things I never noticed before

my silence speaks volumes.

sometimes as I sit on the other side of a desk from someone whose job is to help me

I wonder if she’s judging me

or if I am oversharing

or if, as she listens, she is counting all the ways I don’t measure up

to some unwritten standard

that I’m not privy to

or if

worst of all

she doesn’t care.

too often I say what I think she’ll want to hear

and leave a session with regrets

and tell myself that next time I’ll dump my baggage

and let someone else help carry it for a change

but I am Tantalus

and next time is the fruit

just

beyond

my

reach-

I am a slave

bound and tethered

to the idea

of next time

when this moment

is the only one

I will ever be able to

change