I found the noose.
Then he found the noose.
And found me inside the noose.
And now I find myself in an empty clinic full of screamers and dreamers. Which one am I? Or am I both?
They wouldn’t let me write anything until they could trust me. Trust me? They are allowed to inject, strap, yank, throw, and imprison. Some even take it upon themselves to torture. Trust me? I am one oak in the hollow. They are the rabid creatures that scrape and carve and excrete all over my deep roots, my strong trunk, light ablaze my golden green leaves with their caustic words. I have to be here and they do not. It is what makes it all the more worse.
I do have a therapist. I believe he hears me. He says I’m not crazy. “You’re not crazy, M. You’re simply not.” To you, therapist, I am not, not in this hour. What of the other 23?
– M. R. –
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