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…