He said I couldn’t possibly be ill
I'm too well put together
But still my restless mine won’t still
And I'm still fragile as a feather

He didn’t believe anything was wrong
Then why am I in therapy
It’s only been eight years, not long
It’s clear he doesn’t care about me

So what if I see terrifying things
So what if I hear the calls of the unreal
Who cares if I'm a puppet stuck to the strings
Who cares if the truth is concealed

So what if I resist the urge to harm
So what if I’ve lost all joy
You don’t care to even try to disarm
A weapon with the urge to destroy

Ignore my experience and what I recall
Your professional opinion is the only truth
My personal anguish means nothing at all
What matters is my grades, not my well-being or youth