It's 2a.m. and I can hear the nurses' footsteps down the corridors,
with pools of light streaming out of their torches like car headlights in the rain.
Tonight is long and lonely, and voices wash over me in the dark.
Night checks, and rays of light pour over the sleepy shadowed forms of us,
into our eyes. Each black silhouette,
the shape of a patient in the middle of a dream.
I can feel insects crawling under my hands
but I can never dig them out.
Early morning cups of sweet black tea bring
a sense of comfort and normality to being an
involuntary psychiatric patient locked up in solitary.
Sleepless nights lying with outward eyes
at the disembodied hands pushing through the ceiling.
I curl around myself and wish I could disappear.
My hands are red and raw from trying to scratch
out the bugs that crawl underneath. I try to show
the insects to the staff, but none of the nurses believe.
One of the humanless spirits holds my spine
while the disembodied voices whisper "stay as low as you can
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