Snap. clank.

The lock catches

on the door they shut

of the room

they left you in.

White walls,

bare and cold

and suffocating.

The floor,

stained linoleum.

The room is empty

except for the bed

where you now lie

staring into the overhead light,

shaking, scared, in the gown they gave you

when they removed all you had on you

because they were afraid you’d hang yourself

with your shirt or your shoelaces.

The silence of this room is deafening;

but the noise outside is deadly.

The door is closed,

the curtain is drawn,

but you are still conscious

of the fact

that they are watching your every move,

listening to your every breath.

So you try not to be conspicuous

as you try to talk yourself down enough

to pass their tests

and avoid being strapped down

and shot up.

They come and stick a needle

in your arm

and you feel your blood

flow into five of their

sacred tubes that they will examine

to make sure you haven’t

already done the deed.

They don’t believe you

when you tell them you didn’t.

They don’t believe

anything you say.

Your mind is racing

too fast for them

 and for you.

But you have to get out.

Jump through their hoops

and walk out

into the cold night

for just one more drink…