Dear Mandy

A letter to a therapist. Recognise that, Mandy?

I wish I had the ability
to be happy
like you do and try to
teach me to be, as well
and fail, naturally, for my heart
spends most of its time
trying to lock itself in a Converse shoebox
(it's an expensive heart: it used to demand a
freezer
from a very very specific brand).
So dear Mandy, or should I
call you Amanda, just for today?
I want you to know I feel just fine
for the world is going to die anyway
and the world is going to love anyway
and the world is going to be happy anyway
even if you
fail the task of
distracting me from things like
spider webs and the beauty of trashcans
and this pessimistic view on life
that you so despise
for I do know, really, how you
want to cure me; show me beauty in
more ordinary things like
rainbows
smiles
laughter.
All of that. Am I right?
So dear Mandy,
I'm warning you now (for I really do like
my specifically branded freezer)
There's no chance
I'll
turn
normal
anytime
anyday
soon.

But don't worry.

The world will despise you
no matter what.

And so will I, dear Mandy,
even though you never did
anything wrong.