On Display.

Issues.
You understand them. Or would like to.
In most cases you lie and tell me you understand, to try and make me feel at ease. I'm used to it.
The tapping of that goddamn pen against your clipboard, it sends waves of irritation down my spine and into my aching hands. I clench them whenever you speak.
And the way your head tilts, and those small, crumpling lips that purse and pursue to question me,
but it's all white and blank to me. There's no variation whatsoever.
Your advice is nothing but fragments of biased text left in your memory.

It's always "How are you feeling today? Anything you want to discuss?"


It's not discussion I need. It's not the pills or the hands joining in impatience to solve the next issue.
I don't need the clean, printed papers held on your desk where I'm nothing but a number. The tangled mixture of issues you thought you helped once.

I need wisdom. Trust in another's heart that they can listen.
You're nothing but a book on display. And I need anything but your false kindness to feel comforted.