I sit at the window and just stare at the jagged trees,
their branches jutting out like anorexic bones.
The bars of rigid light explode in the empty room,
draping me in a dark shade of gold, the colour of yellow intestines;
it’s nicotine arms reach in and strangle me in my empty room.
I’ve been taught to ignore my reflection but absorb the landscape,
I’m now an unnatural shade of green as it’s swallowed up my insides.
They’ve taken away the knives. It’s too easy to slit your throat.
The doctor comes to heal, or whatever it is he calls it;
he bandages and plasters over my open wounds
so now they’ve stop staining my dresses.
They’ve taken away the edges, no corners in the room at all,
and the walls are as soft as babies born with straight limbs.
The clock’s toothless grin widens and I have all the time in the world.
Some say I’ve been fixed, I’m back to their normal.
I’m not so sure. They can fix my body, the limbs can be nailed
together and stuck with their glue, but my mind has died.
I can feel it rotting, dripping from the ears, the smell fouling the air
like road kill. The soft carcass houses maggots that crawl out at night.
My hair has faded to the colour of dead leaves,
when I creep around the room, which is very frowned upon,
I can feel it rustle like a ball gown being dragged along rock.
I yearn for the changes that I see through the window,
I want to be the white moon that peeks through the fingers of trees,
I used to see that whiteness in my eyes, but that is also frowned upon.
The pot plants can’t survive here either, the air is too thick for their gills.
I’m sure I’m dying, but whilst peeking at my chart, I’ve seen them tick the box labelled
‘healthy’ even though I know I’ll never leave this sick room alive.
Copyright © Daniel Dixon