Every thursday,

I went to couples therapy

with my depression.

He whispers to me

to stay in bed another day,

as if he’s scared I can’t face it.

He got so controlling,

to the point where I literally had to peel

pieces of myself out of the shower.

To where I had to get on my knees,

and scrape pieces of myself

off the bed.

Eventually,

we stopped going.

It ended with him winning.

When the doctor said,

paxil,

he cringed, his fingers tightly gripping

the arm of the chair.

He shifted his body,

and grimaced.

We stopped going to couples therapy,

because I wanted him to be right.

He didn’t want to be fixed,

and I didn’t want to fix him.

We stopped going to couples therapy

because I didn’t want him to leave.