Feb 21 2015
Insanity
The room was cold, colder than ice,
and she shivered as her tears seemed to
freeze to her pale, sunken face
and her eyes squeezed shut as her shoulders
shake with silent sobs.
The small waiting room is full of people
but none of them are coming to see her.
They never come see her.
Children leave everyday with their belongings
and teddy bears and happy families.
She’s in the same ratty, unwashed clothes
she arrived in.
She doesn’t want to wear the
clothing that makes her like everybody else,
like all the children that cry in their rooms
and scream for help, the ones that see things
that aren’t there, the ones that talk to figments of
their imaginations and hear voices, the kids who
shake and rock back and forth with bags under their
eyes from not sleeping for days on end.
And sometimes even kids like her, scarred and torn open.
Unloved. Unwanted.
The “Crazies.”
They try to give her meds but she refuses
because they don’t understand that the
meds don’t make anything better.
They don’t take the pain away.
They can’t take the pain away.
She uses a pen to mark how many days
she’s been isolated and locked away.
As she curls up in the corner, shaking, rocking back and forth,
tear-stained face, bags under her sunken and emotionless eyes,
chapped lips, untamable hair, her thoughts
drowning her and her heart turning to stone,
she knows she’s never getting out of this insanity.
(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)
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