I am John’s brain. And I never shut up.
Not even for a second.
The man thinks he’s tormented. I say he’s blessed.
What use is a brain if it’s dull and quiet? Why carry the extra weight if its services aren’t required?
But John doesn’t understand. It’s not his fault exactly. It’s that stupid heart of his.
Full of mush and always high on drama. Playing with John like he’s some goddam toy.
So I’m left with no choice but to always keep talking. Distracting the man from the perils of that annoying muscle.
If it hadn’t been for me, John would’ve been in his grave. I talked him out of giving up and slitting his wrists.
That beating monstrosity is so keen to navigate him towards death.
But what does John do? Does he say thank you?
Hah! Fat chance!
He gets himself a tattoo and a psychiatrist.
I listen as John weeps upon a vinyl sofa, his heated words suggestions from that devil in his chest. I’m not a fool and refuse to participate in the idiotic discussion.
But then John does the most despicable thing. He blames all his faults and phobias on me, his faithful brain.
I lose my cool and control.
John opens his mouth and all the dirty words I know just flow out. When I’m done so is the psychiatrist. And John is sent home with an empty wallet and a lengthy prescription.
Three different medicines, red, blue and white. Morning, noon, and evening.
Did the dumbbells forget about the night?
It’s been seven days.
John says he’s more peaceful, I say it’s that bloody heart leading him astray.
I want to speak, but I don’t feel much the same.
But who wants to talk to Traitor John anyways?
Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. But what if Too Much Beauty becomes a painful thing?
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