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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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