Confessions of a psychotherapist
Last night, a client knocked on my door, I noticed there was no handle.
We were both stuck in our rooms — mine full of unread books, his full of empty chairs. We talked through the gap under the door. Lying on the floor. gathering dust with our chests. I whispered, he sneezed. We didn't notice the time.
He put his finger through the gap — a bitten nail, still bleeding.
I looked at my own — professionally painted.
At that moment, I knew it’s all about pretending that nothing is boiling inside.
We spent the hour looking for cracks in door, hoping for the best.