He doesn't want to talk, To them. But, He wants to talk. He cries out in prose and song, In the small hints of conversation, The strings of a guitar is his only escape. He paints vivid pictures of his pain, watercolours and the english language as his chosen medium. His tissues are soaked in blood, drawn out by self-inflicted wounds. He doesn't want their help, Though he knows he needs help. Not from them, not from friends, For friends are too easily lost, Scared away, Pushed away by fear and anxiety. A stranger is what he needs, Someone who will see his pain and pass no judgement, Who he can dispose of once the problem is solved, Leaving no trace of his weakness.