"Why can't you tell me what's wrong?" She crossed her legs and sat down on the ruffled rug. Her hair trailed down her shoulders in spirals as if she was a flight of stairs, unraveling in front of my eyes.
"I don't want to give you false hope." My fingers brushed the rug's tiny hairs back and forth, the colors getting darker and lighter. "I don't want you to be dragged down, to take away your smiles because of my stupid thoughts and feelings."
"If they are so stupid and meaningless, why think them anyway?" She raised her eyebrow and pulled out a sketchpad from her backpack. Her pencil tattooed itself against the edge of the paper, slicing away the layers as it drilled lines and curves.
"A coffin?" My eyebrows scrunched up together like a pair of wings on a limping bird.
"Yes, a coffin," she paused, "here, write all of your thoughts inside the coffin." Handing me the sketchpad, she left the room; her feet made small dents in the rug as I watched her trail away as if she were a stray petal. I sighed as I began to write everything that was whispering behind my ears, behind my eyelashes, behind the chambers of my heart. The space inside of the coffin began to fill up with scribbles and mismatched words. The words began to be dragged to be withered bracken by the load of sadness piled onto the coffin. It looked as if the coffin was an explosion, waiting for someone to press the big red button so it can use the same pains that it fed onto, to destroy everything in its path.
"Unexpressed feelings will never die or be closed off because the same pains you used to fill the coffin, up to the brim, and even above the brim, will be used to spill you over," her voice trailed down the halls as I heard the door being opened and closed.
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
