"Suicide is not an option"

I hear my therapist say,

She smiles wryly

And I want to scream.

 

"Suicide is a coward's way out"

She continues,

I do not understand

She thinks this is a fact?

 

"Suicide is harmful,"

She insists,

"To who?" I ask

"To everyone" she answers

 

She sounds so confident

She sounds so convinced

She sounds so sure

 

And her smile is a knowing one,

Knowing of hope and aspirations,

A sense of the future

But I want to slap it off her face

 

Her eyes are stubborn and unwilling

They know not of hate, fear, pain

They know not of tiredness and resentment

They know not of suicide

 

"That's cute" I mumble,

She's said to me before,

She says this every time she sees

a new cut on my forearm

 

"You always say that"

There's pity in her voice

She is tired

She doesn't know anymore

 

"Suicide is not an option"

She insists.

 

I am crying now,

I am in pain.

 

"Do you want to die?"

She asks heavily.

I do not answer.

There is no need.

 

"My life is not my own"

I mumble.

I hate her.

I hate this.

I hate myself.

 

"I'll keep my hands off it,"

I comply, unfolding my sleeves.

She gives me a small smile,

Hands me a lollipop.

 

"You'll get through this,"

She tries to comfort me.

I smile this time,

"Maybe."