The Wicked Therapist

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By David Derey

When they lay down on the couch, and open up to me;

They have no clue what they’re letting in.

The deep-rooted problems they bring up – I make grow.

It’s my drug.

Then she comes.

From the first session, I have a bad feeling.

Every angle I play her with, she spins around – and thanks me for the perspective.

Every evil seed I plant, blossoms into beautiful flowers in her mind.

I try my best, but she just won’t break.

She wants seven double sessions a week.
Lately, the few times I sleep:
My dreams are bleak.

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