Back To Numbness.

Forehead pressed up against the cool glass door.

Fingers lightly tracing the frame...

Your stuffed animal clenched tightly to your stomach,

the only item of comfort in this hellhole.

 

Locked up, white socks and shirts and sweat pants.

Hair a tangled mess, make-up caked in streaks

down your tear-stained face.

Everything on lock down.

 

A glimpse of freedom, as you watch the snow fall lightly

outside the door at the end of this foam hallway,

where you can't even kill yourself on a wall.

 

The highway a hundred yards from the door.

Cars and headlights only blurs across the wintry night,

fading and appearing quicker than you can think.

 

And your mind is racing quicker than you realize.

 

Crashing through the glass, ravenous for a taste of freedom,

tasting something other than numbness, than the medicine

they mess you up on so you cooperate,

so you don't try anything.

 

Running, running, socked-feet soaked and crunchy

in the frost... Adrenaline pumping through your veins,

and you're halfway there before they sound the

horrid, ear-piercing alarm.

 

And a gunshot.

 

And your legs collapse underneath you.

 

And the procaine works its way throughout your veins,

crawling up your spine,

spidering through your arms and legs

until your face...

 

Your face is buried in snow.

Your arm outstretched towards freedom.

Towards the cars that would have run you over

and ended your misery, agony, and anguishes...

 

Your whole body is back to being numb.

You can't feel the frost biting into your face,

can't feel the staff tackling you and dragging your

limp body back to that mental institution of a prison,

 

Where everything is white, and clean,

and blank.

And the people are only shells.

Brainwashed.

 

Back to numbness.