Unsure

Sometimes I get paranoid.
My therapist says that it’s because
of the disorder in my brain,
and my friends say it’s because
I don’t trust them enough.
My parents say it’s because
of that time when I was little and
one of the other kids at the preschool
stole my blanket when I was sleeping.

Maybe it isn’t just because of
all of that, though;
maybe it’s because I never
learned how to be good enough
for anybody,
so I just stopped trying to be
and now I just watch my back
because I know one of these days
someone’s going to hunt me down
because of it.

Sometimes I get sad.
My therapist says that’s normal
for someone like me,
and my friends say everyone
gets like that,
and they say it in their
dismissive fucking tones.
My parents say it’s because
of all the hormones, because they
don’t realise that sometimes
people are more than just sad,
just like I’m more than just sad.

Maybe it isn’t just because of
all of that, though;
maybe it’s because I’m just a fuck up,
and everyone knows fuck ups
deserve to feel like this.

Sometimes I get lonely.
My therapist says it’s because
I spend so much time home alone
and that I should go see my friends more.
My friends say the same thing,
but they never ring to ask how I am
or to ask me round to see that movie
or hear that album they just bought.
My parents say it’s because I’m
way too sensitive and that I should
just get over myself.

Maybe my parents are right.
I probably do care too much,
but then again, they don’t really
know me at all, do they?

That’s why, one day, I wrote a letter,
and I sent a copy to everybody I know,
and then I hung myself in the shed
with a cut across my throat.
Nobody had anything to say about that.