Conversation with an Empty Chair.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa waa wha waa?

ME. I'm 17. Doesn't your sheet tell you that?

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa waa whawha waa mwawhawaawaa wwa hawhawaawa wawhawaawah wamamhaa?

ME. That's what they tell me.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa whawha whaa whaa wahawaawah?

ME. I yawn a lot. I'm dizzy, sometimes.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa whawha wamamhaa wa wama-mhaa?

ME. Yes, it's almost constant.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa wahwa whaa wahwa mwa wha'a whaa whaa?

ME. There are highs. There are highs, but they don't last, and they make the lows worse.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa wamamhaa whawha?

ME. No.

EMPTY CHAIR. Wahawaawah mwa whaa mwa?

ME. I'd rather not talk about it.

EMPTY CHAIR. Wa wahwa wamamhaa wha'a whaa wa whaa wahwa?

ME. No. Not really.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa wahwa mwa whaa whaa.

ME. Yes.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa wahwa mwa whaa whaa?

ME. Look, if you don't ask me a real question, I'm going to puke.

EMPTY CHAIR. wamamhaa, wa mwa wa mwa wahwa mwa wahwa wa mwawhawaaw?

ME. Why I am depressed? Birds and butterflies.

EMPTY CHAIR. Whawha?

ME. B-I-R-D-S AND B-U-T-T-E-R-F-L-I-E-S. Did you know, maybe a hundred years ago, passenger pigeons would flock in the billions, from sea to sea. They would blot out the sky. But to us, they were just meat. And we couldn't stop killing them until they were dead. The whole species. Dead. And butterflies—I don't want to talk about it with you—the whole world is dying.

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. My father died and became a tree and he doesn't talk to me anymore. I don't know what to do when someone you love makes you their toy. My mother is a terrible cook. We eat what we should burn and burn what we should eat. She wants me to save her. I can't even save myself.

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. ...And always, there's this hum on the other side of everything, this dark whisper that crawls in through the gaps. Something is watching me all the time. I can't tell if it's God or something darker. I just want it to STOP! Whatever it is, it's got me, and it's pulling me down. It's killing me and I can't breathe!

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. You asked me about coping skills? I've had all of coping I can stand. I don't want to cope. I want it to STOP! Or I'll stop it myself.

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. Why are you looking at me like that? It's a fucking metaphor, OK? Ask me a real question! And stop looking down at your notepad when you can't remember my name!