Head Case


Want to die.  Don’t know why.
Misery, pain and despair
speak of the helplessness and hopelessness
that has rendered me isolated and unaware of any danger signals.
Numb, I lay on the gurney with electrodes secured to my head
as they wait to be fed with the juice to reboot my brain.
This is the twenty-fourth time.   I hope to wake up dead.
The IV weeps to replenish tears
as a mask is pressed to my face.
Take a deep breath, cascade of tingles…
Implode to that secretive place…

A few days later I feel even worse,
like saturation in sin to rot within
as I plumb the depths
I’m just a breath away…
Guilt, self-hatred, embarrassment, shame,
Is “One Way to Hell” the name of this game?

I return to the hospital to see my psychiatrist
who’s as committed to me
as I am now to the psych ward.
Third time in, take it on the chin.
Familiar is this padded cell, shades of hell.
Strip down naked, all belongings taken.
Don the blue gown that reveals my bare ass.
Clothes a mere memory and so is my class.
Completely overwhelmed down on the ground,
in a room with little more
than this floor and bolted door.
Rampant with tears, fetal position assumed.  
Degradation becomes this womb.


© David Girard 25/03/15

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