Here I am, behind locked doors,
without a key.
The stale urine explodes my only remaining haven.
Millions, it seems milling their
Nothingness under football helmets.
Colliding with reality.
Swarming like lost bees.
I was on the top of the world.
I was free.
But, here I am, on a cement floor and
in a room with a crooked rectangular
poorly sawed large hole.
in the locked door.
Maybe done by a fellow inmate?
Surely they could afford better?
How do I convince the Staff
That I do not consider this punishment
For failing to kill myself?
That these therapeutics
These iron bars drenched in urine and screams.
The red phone labeled "MALE HELP"
Yes, it's us and them.
Us, the permanently branded "insane"
And Them, the normal.
I had to cross That line.
I am "of them."