Has her therapy gone wrong?

Has her therapy gone wrong?

Upon the sterile, neutral walls,
The ticking clock of healing falls.
I sat upon the leather chair,
To lay my ragged spirit bare.
I sought a balm, a guiding light,
To help me through the endless night.
Instead, the gentle mask came down,
Replaced by judgment’s iron crown.

The one ordained to heal and mend
Became a judge, a foe, a friend
Who twisted truth and turned the blade,
And used the sacred trust we made.
With venom tipped in clinical guise,
They looked into my pleading eyes
And tore the fragile self apart,
To pierce the center of my heart.

"You are the author of your pain,"
They hissed like acid in my brain.
"Too weak, too loud, too much, too small,"
They built a wall to watch me fall.
The phrases meant to help me grow
Were hurled as weapons from below—
A mockery of helping hands,
Enforcing cruel, unwritten demands.

They shamed the scars I dared to show,
And mocked the grief I used to know.
With poisoned words and cold disdain,
They traded therapy for pain.
No sanctuary found in here,
Just amplification of my fear.

I walked in seeking space to breathe,
To find the strength to heal and weave.
I staggered out with shattered pride,
With nowhere left for truth to hide.
The room was meant for mending bones,
Instead, they stoned me with their tones.