Gutted in Grippy Socks
On the psych ward,
time crawls
across piss-stained floors.
It smells like fish
whenever Debbie, the head nurse,
heats up lunch.
I catch her watching me
waiting for meals, for meds—
filthy, exposed, gutted.
I can’t breathe at night
when my big dreams
dwindle under fluorescent lights.
I am mesmerized by darkness,
what’s unseen—
unspeakable suffering
lights me up like a toy.
Warning: don’t press my buttons
or I might snap.
My mind is rubber,
wrapped in cheap plastic.
Unpack me gently. I’m a fall risk,
Debbie’s worst nightmare—
chasing shadows
along cracked walls,
crawling
without yellow grippy socks.
No comments:
Post a Comment