It’s the start of summer,
the night sky is clear and I’m lying on my bed.
I’ve been here everyday since I found out, nearly 5 months diagnosed.
No one around me knows though, I’d rather let them see
whatever they want to, than to have them acknowledge what’s not right with me.
I’m complex, my psychiatrist says, and it’s nobody’s fault.
I meet him in secret, they don’t care to ask.
Everybody going about theirs, no concern to spare.
So I keep my curtains open and look to the stars.
Hopefully they understand me, I’m made from their parts.
