Welcome to intake.
Again.
New name, new face,
same notepad.
“Tell me your story.”
Already did.
Five times.
You people lose therapists
like socks in the dryer.
They ask about sleep.
Prescribe silence in pill form.
Zombie protocol:
shut it up, slow it down,
don’t feel too much.
Cry once, and you’re unstable.
Don’t cry, and you’re withholding.
Speak, and it’s a lie.
Flinch, and it’s a symptom.
You get good at the game.
Yes, I’m safe.
No, I’m not hearing voices.
Yes, I’m taking the meds.
No, I don’t know why I bother.
They cracked one story open.
One.
Ignored the rest like
bad links in a chain.
Too heavy to document.
Too real to touch.
Progress is a word they use
like they mean it.
But you leave with the same weight,
plus a diagnosis
they’ll change next visit.
And still
you show up.
Because this
is the only door that opens
when everything else
is locked
tight.
