On yet another visit to the psychiatrist

 I come into the doctor's office wearing a pantsuit 

My face is perfectly assembled in an acceptable, even beautiful version of the self I must pretend to be 

And I do it well every day 

I tell the doctor I want to die

I tell her my whole history and stories

All the pain, all the trauma

In a composed voice, just like my outfit and makeup 

Such a composed little lady

I tell the doctor I often consider crashing my car going 100km/h on the highway 

I tell her how I carefully consider whether or not to wear a seatbelt

I tell her I'm hurting, and I tell her I'm still grieving

But just like president Snow, I break my own rules

I allow that doctor to see me bleed 

I tell her I want the pain to end and I tell her I might as well do it myself 

And she quickly blinds herself, so I tell

I tell her that I could be a sobbing mess, but I'm not 

I tell her I've been poisoning myself with opioids to get me through the day

But like a puppet, she's quick to follow the movement of her strings 

And she tells the same tale of a puppet master that refuses to see people, only symptoms

And she phrases the same bitter corporate speech that makes sure the appointment won't last more than one hour 

She tells me to take the same pills 

She tells me to come back in a month

She tells me she doesn't have a diagnosis

And she tells me that the only concern now is to make sure that I do not kill myself 

Even though ten minutes before I told her of how many ways I thought I might do it 

Even though I told her I might OD on painkillers even if I do not mean to

She stares at me, an open wound that she just reopened

Making me relive every trauma 

And she slaps a bandaid on it, gives me a prescription and a statement that says that I'm well enough to go back to work 

And as the well composed little lady I look, I do exactly what she tells me to 

I drive my car back home a day after under heavy rain and I do not crash it 

I just think of Bette and how she says that she always thought she had to feel everything

When the truth is it is better to feel precisely nothing.