I’m Not Your Psychologist

I’m not your psychologist.

I’m just a good listener who is choosing to stop listening to your bullshit.

I’m sick, sick, sick of yo’ shit. (In this moment I am an angry black woman)

And I’m sick of selfish people like you.

Or rather, people who use other people for their own selfish purposes.

You treated me like I was a DVD. Play, pause, stop,scratch, repeat,

Calling me when it was convenient for you.

Every time I ask how you are doing, you have a laundry list of complaints.

You want me to fix your problems.

But you see, that is your problem.

I can’t fix you.

I can only listen. And be there for you when you’ve chased every other person away who is also sick of your shit.

I just decided yesterday that I’m done acting like your shrink.

I just decided to stop being free therapy to you, you who took advantage of my adoration.

You who knew that me adoring you meant me giving you my whole heart for only a tiny piece of yours,

Your black, wilting heart that is hidden beneath the body of a God.

It’s why you don’t have a wife. Or kids. You would only poison them with the charcoal that seeps out of your skin.

Your words are as fake as the lines that you read on T.V.,

Your personality as dried out as the story of your shitty soap opera.

“Oh, so we’re not talking…again?” you say, when I don’t answer your many messages.

The few times you ask how I am and I give you an answer that’s longer than “Okay,” you decide that I’m not the person you want to talk to anymore.


Because you only came to me for free therapy.

And good psychologists aren’t supposed to tell you their own problems.

I’d rather be your psychiatrist,

To prescribe you a medication that’s meant to fix selfish narcissists like you.


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