Therapy and Tea
I was 16.
I already hated this room.
I would wipe my finger across the table with magazines.
Expecting dust, but it was clean.
I wondered if someone cleaned it at night.
At night, I’d be sad.
And they’d be cleaning.
In the morning, they would hide, and the therapists would emerge.
When she called me into the depths, she was friendly.
She asked if I wanted tea.
It sounded good, and I don’t know why.
I don’t remember much about that day.
Except that I was 16 years young.
And that it was nice of her to offer me tea.
That’s how they get you.
They stay up all night,
Making their witches brew.
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