You liar. You say you care. You say you understand. You say you’ve been there, done that, and this will all turn out okay.

But you lie. You don’t know any of this for fact. It all just sounds nice. Fake as the smiles plastered on your face. Yet you counsel, you advise.

How the hell did you get rich and famous for being a liar? Did I miss the advertisement?

You really wasted all that time going to school just so you could tell people what’s wrong with their minds? And now I waste the hours, sitting across from you, not wanting to open up, not wanting to admit myself.

I am a mangled mess. Don’t bother putting me back together. Just disassemble and bury.

What can mend a broken heart?

That’s why I’m here, sitting across from you. I’m mentally unbalanced because I’ve lost part of my heart. Things don’t function well in part rather than in whole.

You write your prescriptions and give your instructions. Maybe I’ll take it one of these days—the medication.

But then I couldn’t stay up all night, writing and listening to music and masturbating. Then I’d have to be human. I’m done being human. I’m done.