The Counsellor

I’m at my bus stop once more,
counting down the minutes.
Thirty of them this time
as I consider what to put on the table.

Do I go there?
Five weeks in and I’m yet to disclose all
in fear of judgment.
In fear.
Of Judgment.
My King would be ruined,
I’d be a pawn eternal.
What would she think of me?

I feel I’m using this to run away
instead of confront.
To escape the literal stench of the ward.
To run away from prying personal eyes.
My need to be The King is too great.

Tears build.

I want to stop.
I don’t want this build up anymore,
having to take a deep breath
before I ring the doorbell.

I could run away, run home,
but all my hard work would be ruined.
I always run.
The university run. The Aussie run.
Run. Run. Run.
Not this time.

Tears build.

Ten minutes.
A slow walk would suffice.
I pray for an hour later, time to escape.
I see The Chair.
The clock.
The small glass of water next
to tissues, which I have yet to touch.

I sit down in the burgundy rocking chair.
Here we go again.

It’s awkward this time, for we have talked
of all and sundry in weeks gone by.
That calm yet piercing stare urges me to speak.
Tick tock… Tick tock…

We talk of nothing. Horses. The sky. Water.
I press my fingers against the glass;
staring deep inside.
I have one chance to tell her.
It is now or never.

Tears build.

One man can’t carry the world
and my world just collapsed.
One confession later and
the room, it changed.
The awkwardness of silence
replaced with grown man, crying.

“That brings us to the end of our session.”

Tears fall.