My therapist’s name is Beth.
She told me that I have
anxiety,
depression,
a lack of motivation,
and zero self-esteem.
She told me that I need to find
a hobby,
a pastime,
something that makes me “happy.”
She told me to focus on
my good qualities,
my strengths.
Please, Beth,
just give me some meds.

This has not been a good year,
And I fear
That it’s only getting worse.

Go ahead.
Take my razors.
Send me to counseling.
I’ll be impressed
If it does a **** thing.
I am my problems.
I am a problem.
I just wish you could see
How comfortable I am in my misery,
How ready I was to die,
And how even though I lied,
I truly meant the best for everyone
But myself.
So go ahead.
Do what you wish.
Just know that I’m not expecting a change.

“I can’t read your mind,” you say,
as if it's a bad thing.
If you could read my mind,
you would no longer look at me
with those adoring eyes of yours.
You wouldn’t make me breakfast
or hold my hand
or call me beautiful.
You probably wouldn’t call me
at all.
And I wouldn’t blame you.
If you could read my mind,
you’d see the darkness,
the hatred.
My kindness,
my innocence,
my “adorable” exterior
are works of fiction.
My heart is bitter and cold.
I am not “kind,”
by any means.
I may love you,
but you’re one of few.
Just be thankful
that you can’t read my mind.