Doctor, I must admit: I am doubtful
that you can help me. So many before you have tried, you see.
Nevertheless, let us be optimistic, as they say;
let us be clever.

What, doctor? I am reticent? I am coy?
I am schizophrenic, disillusioned,
I had two cats, both of whom were hit by the very same taxi
(the license number is in my handbag, let me fetch it)

the shock of it was simply devastating.
I am pathological about men,
storms, scissors, the scent of blood, and telemarketers-
now do not say that I will not tell you.

I tried bulimia, but it didn't suit me- I honestly prefer suicide attempts.
Once I tried to poison myself, but they pumped my stomach before the
vinegar could make its way through.
Likewise I am no good at hit-and-run; I always manage to jump in front of
an ambulance.
My dear doctor, I would never lie to you!
(although one of my alternate personalities will say different.)

I dislike messes, which is why the murder of my husband
eventually drove me to confess- his corpse stank something dreadful,
and besides was taking up space in the chest I had been saving
for cashmere sweaters. You see, I'm just compulsive that way.

Doctor, dearest, I really am no good at any of it. It seems so easy,
just to become anorexic, or give in to terrific fits of rage;
but this art is not for me, it seems. And that
is what I find to be my biggest problem: my ineptitude, bumbling,
never-quite-sane and never-quite-gone ...

You say I speak facetiously? That I jest?
Or that- heaven help us- I lie?
These many-tiered insanities, more complex than a cake- all fabricated for
my own sick amusement?
I simply do not understand.
Oh doctor, isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you want?