The nurse calls your name and you suddenly remember where you are.
You have been staring at the carpet for twenty minutes.
All around you people have been bulldozing the hell out of the abandoned sky scrapers that fill their heads.
A girl tells you she is so happy to be here
That soon you will be happy to be here
Tells you her first day here she lay on the carpet and cried all day
Tells you she is so different now
You continue to stare at the carpet
Know you will not cry on this carpet but almost wish you could
The way you wish you could believe that one day you’d say “I’m so different now.”
Wish you understood how bulldozers worked.
Or what architect thought skyscrapers could fit inside of your head
and why no one seems to want to live there anymore.
If you wanted to speak you would talk about the fountain at the mall that you once threw pennies in to
and if you could remember those wishes if they ever came true.
Or how you only go looking for shade when it is too hot outside
because you only go looking for help when you’re too tired to cry anymore.
Or you’d tell her about the bird you hit with your car the other day
and how you wept because you wanted so badly to switch places with the bird.
Seep into the asphalt.
Broken wings or something all splayed.
And she asks you again what brought you here.
So you explain
again about depression and anxiety and self harm and the dead boy that fills your stomach with guilt and the words feel almost artificial in your mouth.
As if they were quartz crystals when you wanted diamonds.