Feb 21 2015


Published by at 9:18 am under Uncategorized

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.

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