I’m waiting for the nice lady to invite me in,
Say hello, interrogate me, take notes, dismiss me.
Followed by more questions, more useless talk.
And all because I was honest.

I’m a writer.
But every plot and story has been told before,
Every character and personality has been formed.
Sometimes the only things left are my feelings.

Today I feel frustrated and angry.
But you say I’m only a teen.
You say I shouldn’t have any problems.
You say I should be happy, cheery all the time.
You say I should write about flowers and balloons.

Well, guess what?
The balloon popped. A sea turtle ate it. It died.
The flower wilted. No sun, no water. It died too.
When I’m not allowed to write about my true feelings,
A part of me dies. But when I am honest,
You say I’m depressed. Suicidal. Emo.
Maybe even mentally disturbed.

Stop.
Stop the emails of mock concern.
Stop referring me to the counselor.
Stop the labels, the assumptions.
Just let me be.
Just let me feel.
Just let me write about that.

Still I’m waiting for the nice lady to invite me in,
Say hello, interrogate me, take notes, dismiss me.
Followed by more questions, more useless talk.
And all because I was honest.

In primary school you punished me
For lying.