Inner Workings

“How does that make you feel?”
Please tell me that’s not what I’m paying for
Six words that have been recycled from the ears of one twisted patient
To the soul of another
Large black couches equipped with
Too many boxes of tissues
Four white walls display proof
Of too many years of education
And not enough living

“How does that make you feel?”
She musters every ounce of sincerity possible
But to be honest, she doesn’t care
She doesn’t understand
Bipolar disorder. Depression. Schizophrenia. Mania. PTSD. PMDD. BDD. MPD.
To her: letters, titles, labels
Prescriptions to be filled
Never experiences
Never feelings
Never real.

“How does that make you feel?”
Horrible. Useless. Worthless.
But I’ll never tell
She’ll never know
Because I’ve learned the questions
Answered them wrong and felt the repercussions
But now I know better
My words are well practiced
Every movement rehearsed
I’ll play the game if that’s what it takes

“How does that make you feel?”
Like this
Is a waste of
Time. Money. Breath.
Like you wouldn’t pretend to care
If it was not my name
That signed your checks
Like you would not feign sympathy if I was not penciled in your
Perfectly organized planner

“How does that make you feel?”
Like your soothing voice makes me cringe
And like the smell of your too clean office makes my stomach churn

But also like, I’ll keep writing those checks
Because in all honesty,
You’re the only one willing to even pretend to care.