he/him/you

May 18, 2018 6:01pm

I sit in a firmly padded chair, slouched down, as if I am attempting to sink into the cushions. I wait and watch the clock hands tick away seconds and minutes and hours and days... I watch the unmoving walls, gazing at the framed papers printed in too small print to read from this far away. I watch the people. The ones who bring in half empty Mountain Dew bottles and sip away until they're called in. The ones who bring boring, essay typed books on how to better their parenting skills, which makes me question their ability. I sit and I wait in an uncomfortable chair only to be moved into another an hour later, one even more likely to let me sink in between its cushions. And it feels slippery against my clothes. And even though I sink, it's not in the way I'd like. And I wait to be face to face with confrontation, but ready to lie. Ready to keep my mouth shut or awkwardly laugh away a question or fidget in this cage of a chair. And my phone battery dwindles as I type this. That I am waiting. And it all seems so pointless. And I feel like the only thing accomplished here is realization as to why everyone else hates talking to people too.
And part of it is because she refuses to say I'm insane. She refuses to suggest I need something more. She's so rooted in my past, just like the rest, and I want to get better, not talk about it. (Or maybe I don't want to get better. Maybe, maybe i want everyone to think that way but couldn't care less if it was true.) Maybe it's not even the past's fault. Maybe I'm just messed up. But no one will dare admit that.
Anyway, is it here, uncomfortable and surrounded by god awful, teeth shattering silence in the titanic of my chair, I sit waiting for something as pointless and purposeless as me.

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A/N: This one is far too personal. Far too narcissistic. Far too pessimistic. But few people read these poems. And even less take what I say to heart.