“you’re not a sociopath,” he said to me. “why do you say this all of the time?”

shrugs don’t prove apathy, they exhibit it.

“I have no feelings.”

he was tinkering with the olive colored shelf as I had demanded. I was unsure if my anchor screws were secure.

“they are,” he said. “good job with the shelves. and you do feel. I see it.”

smiles don’t prove light, they exhibit it.

“no, I don’t care about anything.”

he hopped down from my couch and put the hammer down on my coffee table.

“sarah, I don’t see you running around murdering people.”

“sociopaths don’t murder people, they feel nothing for other people. psychopaths murder people.”

walking across slumped bodies doesn’t prove compassion fatigue, it exhibits it. 


“want some water?” he asked and headed towards the kitchen.


I nodded.


“if it were up to me, I would live on a boat in the middle of an ocean without a single thought or issue crossing my mind letting the days wash over me until I was sun beaten.”

I heard the faucet.

“until I was rested and drained.”

I heard the glass clank.

“until I wanted the salt water finally.”

I heard him cough.

“you’re tired. that’s all.”


walking the block for hours at a time without talking to a single person doesn’t prove dissociation, it exhibits it. maybe you should spell it for him.











father, we can be happy all the time.

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