“Have you been taking your meds?”
Their voices drip from the ceiling,
clinical and clean.
What meds?
The ones meant to silence the screaming?
The ones that cage my storm
but starve what’s left of me?
As far as I know,
I’ve only been taking my razor—
Small doses of red to remind me that im warm
“Yes…” I answer,
because honesty burns too bright in this room.
They prefer dim light,
soft tones,
numbers that make sense.
“How do you feel daily?”
I look past them,
past the sterile walls,
to the window—
where the dark eyes wait.
They gather like crows on the glass,
quiet, knowing,
their gaze heavy enough to bruise.
They are not monsters.
They are what I buried.
They are what remembers.
“Are you okay?”
The question echoes, sounding more and more like an assumption.
“How has your depression been? Is the antipsychotic helping?”
“Sure,” I whisper.
“I’m just tired today.”
But the eyes blink in unison.
They know the truth—
I am not tired.
I am fading.
YOU ARE READING
Writings/Projects
PoetryExperimenting with writing, starting small with short scenes, poems...might build to a story later. For the most part some parts will have trigger warnings. Others may or may not be a mess, regardless Enjoy
