the room is dimly lit.
there is a man in front of me. he is white and bald and has a notepad in his hands. he is friendly and yet still somehow unkind. for some strange reason, he doesn't stop me from pacing through the room. i walk around him in circles. it's slow. slower than i ever walk. i don't know what my constant need to move says about me. i do not know what i am telling him. i am walking and not going anywhere.
he asks me a lot of questions. questions like "how are you feeling" and "how do your parents treat you" and "are there firearms in your home". sometimes i tell the truth. sometimes i lie for no apparent reason just to throw him off and feel even a little bit in control. how would he know if i was lying? does it even matter if i'm lying or telling the truth if nobody can tell but me?
what has anyone ever gained from being honest?
he never makes me sit. i am walking and not going anywhere. the room is spacious and somehow still cluttered. my lies are making the air feel much less breathable, almost like suffocation. i am drowning in my own words. i am drowning in my own body. i breathe my own skin.
"now," he says, "for any student expressing suicidal thoughts, i am legally required to call your parents or guardians."
YOU ARE READING
the veiled lady/hailstones between my teeth
Poetrythere is nothing out there there is nothing beyond this here this is it *** 12/16/23 first book of poetry there is nothing beyond
