The Tissue Box

The Tissue Box

A Poem by PadfootBlack

You shuffle into the room,
reluctantly shake hands
(yours are sweaty. 
She pretends not to notice),
and you sit.
Awkwardly adjust and avoid
that weird all-knowing smile
The leather complains so
you don't fidget anymore
(you're not comfy yet,
but you've decided it's
not important).
She asks the first question,
a simple
 "How are you?"

and you swallow.
Hard.
You answer absently,
some bullshit answer about
stress at work and missing 
your ex, but you can't
take your eyes off
that goddamn tissue box
on the center of the table.
She asks you to talk more about
your ex, but you barely
hear her because 
the tissue box is laughing.
It says,

"By the time this forty-five minute session
is over,
you're going to cry."

© 2014 PadfootBlack


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Added on December 11, 2014
Last Updated on December 11, 2014

Author

PadfootBlack
PadfootBlack

NY



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