Not Quite Right

"Everyone feels that way," my therapist said,

     like it was a blanket, a truth to consume,

     but those words felt hollow, a barrier instead,

     and I sat with my coffee, wrapped tight in my gloom.

The steam rising softly, fading like doubt,

     replaying each word that seemed off from the start,

     I wanted connection, but felt left out,

     a casual dismissal, a shard to my heart.

Is it wrong to believe that my hurt is my own?

     that each lonely feeling is not just a phase?

     Yet there I sat, sipping my sorrow alone,

     wishing for answers, but lost in the haze.