Would you feel better if you had a label?
I probe the air with my left eye, spy
socratic poker face with my right –
she can’t see me, just case notes;
I, unidentified, somewhere between
the sighing beige of the walls
and the dirty carpet, stained
with confessions, some sharp enough
to draw blood, others hollow and
unyielding. She tells me that I
have a lot to be thankful for
while I count the brown bricks
outside, each one an exiled breath
and the cadaver of wounded trust
makes a morgue of the coffee table.