Diagnosis

I’m sick, and there’s no disputing that.

Label it, why don’t you? That’ll fix it right up.

Why did you bother giving it a name, if no one listens to me

trying and failing to utter it?

[ I can’t make myself heard. ]

I’m sick, and you can’t see it from outside.

You don’t see it, do you? Tangled mess of my mind.

Why do I tell you “I don’t feel well,”

if you’re only going to ask “Well, does your stomach hurt?”

[ It’s not that kind of ache. ]

I’m sick, and please don’t tell me I’m not.

Why do you argue? It isn’t your brain doing backflips.

Why do you tell me that everyone needs to learn how to cope?

Is it just me who can’t figure it out?

[ Which of us is normal? ]

I’m sick, and giving my mind a title won’t change its state.

Sometimes I worry, did you know? That none of it is real.

Could I make it disappear, the twisting of my thoughts and panic of my soul?

If I just concentrate hard enough, could I fix myself?

[ Trust me, I’ve tried. ]