A Patient Sends a Letter Home
Dynamaps are trees with cords
that speak color-coded conversations, blinking red and green""
they force me to wake before the sun has risen
and tangle around my arms, suffocating me in an iron vice.
I have never watched one grow, but
sometimes their thin stems roll with roots that tangle and pull.
Blood is a liquid for needles to quench their thirst
and it flows out easily, so vibrant and pure:
the person flinches as the needle sinks its teeth into their skin
and blue roadmaps guide the needle to its destination.
I am here to be tortured with happiness and smiles,
and they say that slit wrists do not grow back.
Physician is a man with glasses and a snake around his neck""
he places it over the person's life force
and hears their pain,
their hearts screaming beneath padded walls and rib cage prisons.
This place lacks constraints of ticking clocks,
only knocks on doors and sleep deprivation.
Only few are permitted permission to return home
while the rest suffer and shake in their sleep,
scratching their arms raw and
covering their ears to silence the voices that are not their own.
When the brights are dark once again
they search for something more, but cannot find it
though they try.
God, how they try.
Share This Poem