Tell my father not to come to the funeral. 

Tell my mother not to cry. Tell her not to think about that time in the car, not to regret keeping me out of the psych ward. I am unfixable. I am enigmatic. I am too self aware for psychiatry to touch the broken parts of me.

Tell Morgan I'm sorry I made fun of her in middle school and I'm sorry I broke her best friend's heart.

Tell Sam that I'm sorry for everything: for the missed calls, the broken microphone, the way he always wanted to touch me but never could. Tell him I wanted to buy that plane ticket up until the very last second. Tell him that all the stories, the narratives, the long explanations: all of it counts for something. Tell him I never deleted his number even when he stopped answering. Tell him I never stopped dreaming of the night we first saw each other, of the thoughtless chords he played sporadically. Tell him that I'm sorry for everything. Tell him not to follow me.

“You have an obsession for women’s long hair,” the psychiatrist rephrased his patient’s words. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. There are a lot worse things in life!”

“Well, sometimes I sit in the mall for hours just gazing at girls with beautiful glossy hair. My fascination is beginning to take over my life,” confessed the young man slouched down in his chair.

“I can either medicate you or we can try counseling sessions,” the doctor said in a bored tone. But why is it bothering you so much?”

Putting his head in his hands, the man sobbed, “I have no more space in my bedroom for the swatches of hair hanging from my ceiling and my basement is beginning to smell of rotten flesh. How can I continue in my passion if there is no more room?”