This morning, she blared classical music
from the master bedroom. I know it was to
drown out the mundane, the darkness only
inches away, the way it threatens her hope for
a productive day.
Meanwhile, I haven't touched a piano
in months. I wonder if the keys miss me,
if they yearn for a chance to soothe the
sadness seeping out of my pores
like homeless raindrops.
I've wanted to scream for centuries now,
but I don't know how. If I make too harsh of a
sound, they will think my soul has gone rogue.
I'll be (mis)placed on the sixth floor
ward again and lost among the voiceless.
But what of sanity? Of madness?
Why must they try to measure it,
criticize my worth based on how well
I balance the weight of mind and body.
They are waiting to corner me,
an eye socket into an outlet,
I must release the black poison of
restless thoughts.
I will wait until midnight and sneak out of
my corner room, and then maybe, just maybe
these veins will bleed something other than
infinite sorrow.
