The words land
With the weight of a verdict
Not shouted
Not cruel
Just spoken
With the calm precision
Of someone naming
A storm already overhead
You need a psychologist
The sentence hangs in the air
A doorway I didn’t ask for
A threshold I’ve been circling
For years without stepping through
It isn’t an accusation
It’s a mirror
And mirrors are the most dangerous
Truth tellers of all
The room shifts
Walls breathing
Shadows leaning in
As if the past itself
Has paused to listen
I feel the old defenses rise
The familiar armor
The practiced lines
I’m fine
I can handle it
It’s not that bad
But the words don’t fit anymore
They fall off me
Like clothes I’ve outgrown
In the dark
The therapist watches
Not pushing
Not rescuing
Just holding the silence
Where realization blooms
Like a bruise
Turning into a flower
A psychologist
A guide
A witness
Someone trained
To walk the labyrinth
I keep getting lost in
The idea terrifies me
Not because of what they’ll find
But because of what I might finally
Have to face
Still
Something inside me shifts
A hinge creaking open
A door I’ve kept locked
Out of habit
Not necessity
You need a psychologist
Not as a sentence of failure
But as a map
A direction
A hand pointing toward
The version of me
That refuses to stay buried
And in that moment
I feel it
The smallest flicker
Of willingness
Fragile but real
Like a match struck
In a long dark room