They bring it up
Casually
Too casually
As if asking for payment
In the middle of your unraveling
Is just another part
Of the healing ritual
You’re still sitting there
Your pulse not yet settled
From whatever truth
You just dragged into the light
When the therapist shifts
Their tone
Their posture
Their entire presence
And suddenly the room
Is no longer a sanctuary
It’s a counter
A transaction
We’ll need to take care of the balance
Before you leave
The words land
With the dull weight
Of a stone dropped
Into a still lake
No malice
No softness
Just policy
You blink
Because the moment feels wrong
Like someone turning on the lights
In the middle of a confession
You reach for your wallet
With hands that were just
Holding your own grief
It feels indecent
This shift from soul work
To bookkeeping
They list the charges
As if reciting a litany
Today’s session
The last session
The part insurance didn’t cover
The part no one warned you about
The total sits between you
Like a third presence
Not symbolic
Not metaphorical
Just expensive
You pay
Because what else can you do
Because healing costs
Even when you’re already
Paying in other ways
The receipt prints
With a mechanical sigh
A thin strip of paper
That pretends to summarize
What this work has taken from you
And given back
You fold it
You stand
You leave the room
Feeling lighter in your pockets
And heavier everywhere else
But even this
Even the awkward
Unpoetic moment
Of being asked for money
While your heart is still open
Becomes part of the story
You’re building
A reminder
That healing is not holy
It is human
It is flawed
It is costly
In every sense of the word
And still
You return
Only outside
Hoping to be let in
For free
Remembering that nothing is free