Fictional

My new counselor lady tells me to be "proactive."

She tells me i should conform to my parents ways; to the ways of society. She speaks at me over her nose glasses, bold colored plastic flecks around slicing eyes. Her protruding chest falls over the table, scrunching up notes about divorces and addictions. She is way to close to me. I lean back in my chair and nod. I soon crawl back to the inside of my mind as she goes on to explain why or how or what or something. She keeps chattering and i keep nodding. mhmm, yes, okay. now go away.

At least my mother isn't in the room.

I say this in the kindest of ways. She doesn't know how she suffocates the conversation. She tries not to, but always does. And this always annoys me. This always pangs my insides and screws my fingers deep into the chair arms. I always have to bite my tongue, look the other way, swallow defenseless words. The new counselor lady shoos her away and i take a deep breath. Her questions start immediately. She begins to write a story about me. It is fictional. No one knows the real story.

I only give to the world what i must now.

The bare outsides of my existence. I give the tired eyes which stare blankly, withholding, saving, preserving. I show my dirty feet as they tap tap. A distraction, a nervous habit. My lips as thy strengthen. Restrained words. Filtered words. Their words. I save my words for You. My story isn't written yet.