Does talking help?

Leaning over the pharmacist counter;  
begging for a cure.
Apparently they don’t sell  
treatment for depression here.
 
Does talking help?
Cracked lips open, talked dry.  
Self defense reflexes  
helpfully lash out, spilling forged words  
into half listening ears.
 
Shame melts the truth  
into blistering, mockingly pliable,  
liquid susceptibility.  
The rhythms of my  
heavy heartbeats strike  
struggling fluid into obedience.
 
Then molded into the  
acceptable form of grey lies,  
swiftly sent up by route ‘oesophagus’.  
Trembling from the knowledge  
of what he is veiling  
(guilt is an ugly thing).
 
Delivered by the mouth;  
a twitch of deceiving lips.  
I’ll make you believe me,  
without a second thought.  
Talking will never help.