Counsel

The truth is the hardest pill in the world to swallow,

but tonight, I make the effort.

I drink from the glass on the table whilst he brands it self-harm.

Says it’s the way

my subconscious mind deals

with the torment of all the ages past and present.

I think of my earlier years, the teenager

who sat in the dark weeping,

tallying every sun as it set on her poor flesh ten, twenty, thirty-fold.

I hug my arms close, feel my spine tense, my neck stiffen. I agree quietly,

nod my head solemnly, suppose he is right - no, hate

that he’s right -

I stare past his face, fix my gaze on an incense stained

spot on the wall a foot above the table,

two away from the frame of the door.

I cannot make eye contact when I next speak.

The silence hangs, a veil between us, whilst

I open my mouth, carefully.

I say,

“It’s my most virtuous sin. My love for almost everyone and everything that isn’t me.”

“Everything else comes first; if someone asks me for help, I want to help.”

“If someone needs me to do something, I want to do it.”

“I want to be the best I can for everyone else. To make their lives easier.”

“I am the supply to every demand, because I like feeling like I’m useful for something.”

“I like feeling like I fulfil a purpose.”

“I suppose it gets to the point where there’s just…”

“There’s just nothing left.”