My Psychiatrist Told Me to Get Under the Couch

"Get under the couch," he whispered,  

words soft as unraveling thread.  

I laughed because what else to do?  

The room, static with his steady gaze,  

held its breath while I forgot mine.  

Under the couch, I thought,  

where dust collects like unsent letters,  

where lost earrings grieve in silence,  

where things go to disappear.  

But he tilted his head,  

as if asking me to stay inside  

this strange instruction. His eyes said:  

the couch isn’t furniture today.  

The couch is the feeling  

of curling into care, into shadows,  

a low, quiet corner of yourself.  

My chest loosened suddenly, unexpectedly,  

like untangling a necklace too knotted to wear.  

I didn’t move—and yet, somehow,  

I was already there beneath  

what I’d been trying not to feel.