they called it mercy,
the white coats and clipboards,
a room with thick walls, sterile,
and him sitting there—
eyes like rain-soaked concrete.
Florida sun spilling in
too bright, too harsh,
as if to spotlight the damage,
to make sense of the silence,
the soft snip of scissors
cutting away at whatever was left.
he used to play cards, talk shop,
had a sharp way of cussing,
could...
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