From the psych ward 05/05-08/2017
- Moe Godat
- May 8, 2017
- 1 min read
Lives who do not know North
cannot turn
South.
Said no one.
The needle in my mind
weakened;
a cub scout’s broken compass
giving no direction
so still, I feared
I’d turned into a
paper rose
The knife’s magnet
drew nearer,
a lover’s bite to
bring me back to life
spinning
steel tearing a
bleeding line
into my skin
ripping me quickly
leading, showing me--
away.
here.
Short-stay facility.
3-5 days.
Two crazies share a box
filled with four walls
no shower head
rubber pencils
and a hatred of doors
Reduced from a tender mind--
tissue, once intact
becoming only what I had
cut into it
My tongue used to choose
favorites, but now it
swallows what they give it--
Then I bite it so it cannot
incriminate me.
They prepare us for living
again
a dash of salt to minimize stink
preserving me
with a sterile sting
and leaving my powdered eggs
Flavorless
and I sour like milk
spoiling alone at home
without me there to drink it
The doctor sees.
He adds time spent here
to pills taken
minus my humanity
until I am nothing
calculating my shame
over a release he has
DENIED
stamped in red letters
like blood over my name
but
They’ll take us out for
break time
watching over us like
dogs on walks
We’ll shed our shoes
to expose our skin and
shove our toes into
wet, dead grass
scars soaking in the sun
Together, we’ll wait...
losing tired lives like
a raft that leaks air...
taking on passengers
as a boat takes on water…
sinking
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