‘The ending is water’
Whispered a crow
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long
Hideous as a monster,
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.
I am almost out;
I could smell the water and see its drips on the floor
I dreamt that I felt the sands of the seashore touching my feet,
And that I saw the moulted feathers of gulls
Almost there, I thought
A sea that shall wash the years of weep
I dreamt of slipping among the river’s reeds
With the palm of my hands covered in leaves—
I reach out
But there come the thieves
All is gone—gone, gone. A dream is gone.
They close the doors
Catch the mad who tried to touch the shore!
I succumb. I am numb.
They locked me up in the Seventh Room
A white room with an iron bed
Pictures of previous patients hung on the wall
A trained doctor and a saint came out of the door
I could never run even if I crawl
Present as I am—in front of the ones who created me
The men of virtues—
They unwrap me,
Naked as I first came;
I had nothing to impress them with
These are my hands
My pale skin, my faint hair;
Bare and unpolluted for their entertainment.
A woman of many others like I
A woman is never born anew. I cry.
They had me sewn together with a glue
Stitched up—with wires and threads
I was made out of corpses’ skins
And fed lies in my dreaming beds
They gave me a name,
And taught me how to live in shame
I swallowed it whole.
They operate. I am paralysed.
Like a cadaver: only I see and hear.
Another animal experiment
The crowd shoves to see.
It’s done. I am re-soaked into the plague.
Or so they believe.
Five feet and four inches tall,
I inherited the nothingness—
I breathe oxygen and occupy space
I exist. I exist. I exist.
I learned how to drink the poison
And not die—
The trick is one swallow at a time.
Shackles and pills
Do it smiling—do it until you become a hard rime.
Wired to my roof. Threaded to a man above,
They call him God. But I call him my puppeteer.
They called this a life, I call it an act.
Another chapter on stage.
Chaos is voiceless.
I thrust back to the sea, the waves rise and swell
They run to my lung and fill me,
I could drown
I could possibly die
But I exist—
Somewhere. Elsewhere. As a full moon.
All shall crack asunder
All shall dissolve in
And I shall end—