Fifty Minute Hour

Now here I sit      
Impatiently tapping my foot      
During another fifty minute hour.      
His stare gives no clues      
As to his thoughts.      
The harsh silence is ended      
When he responds by      
Mumbling "truth" that I can't grasp,        
As my mind is on      
The clock next to him      
And I'm half-past caring.      
He finishes with a question,      
"How does this make you feel?"      
I wring my hands as if      
To squeeze the answer out.      
Only anxiety comes,      
Worry about revealing my secret cracks,      
Which persistently grow.      
Finally, I quietly say,        
"I don't want to feel so fragile."      
Nothing else comes out.      
It's over. Who cares?   
What he gave, I'll just throw away.