Diagnose me

Diagnose me.

Slip your fingers into my skeleton heart, feel it beat. Feel it panic and scurry into overdrive, feel it wither, feel it weep. Run your fingers over the patterns and shapes carved into the bone, recognise the artistry. Your fingers are cold. My bleached heart is colder.

Diagnose me.

Set me down in your office. Point me to a comfy chair, pass me a plump pillow adorned with sequins, offer me a glass of water. Your office has a bookshelf, but I’m afraid to skim my fingertips over the perfectly aligned spines because you are watching and time is ticking.

Diagnose me.

Take out your paper, click your pen, rest the tip in the blank space underneath my name and Medicare number. Assure me that everyone I’m about to say is confidential, convince me I’m safe. Ask me personal questions and I’ll answer them, because while I don’t want to tell a stranger about the things in my head I’ll tell you because they tell me you can fix me. I’ll tell you anything, if you help me. I promise.

Diagnose me.

Pass me your prescriptions, your medical advice. I think I need it, but I’m not sure. Change the dials and adjust the levels of chemicals in my brain and blood, the serotonin, the protein, the sadness. Label the pills with my name and address. Happy pills, that’s what they are. You tell me they’re alright to take, that it’s a sign of strength. Others tell me I’m weak. I’ll sit in the corner and listen as you argue over something you cannot understand unless you have curled up in my corner with me, unless you have listened to the words I have tapped out with my keyboard.

Diagnose me.

Maybe it’ll explain why I am the way I am.




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