“No pronouns.” She says, “Here we name the chains on your limbs and the shards in your gut. Leave the theys and the its at the door. Tell me about the scars on your arms and the empty prescriptions in your medicine cabinet.”
I had nothing better to do so I shrugged my shoulders and spoke of nightmares and coming apart at the seams.
What I didn’t tell her is that I’ve been here before. There is nothing new to be found in the introspection or tears and that the only name I can give is on the folder she carried when she walked in the door.
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