Air Bubbles And Paper Cuts

Therapy

You ask me
"When do you think about death?"
I simply respond,
"Every day."
You scribble useless words in your notebook.
Send me back to rehab.
Tell me everything will be okay.
Lie to my face.
Drag your rust covered razor
across my truthful skin.
And don't leave a trace,
Saying that you're the real sinner here.