The Asylum

They aren’t as heavy-handed as they are in the movies.
They escort me slowly, gently to the doctor,
Like a small child.
They hold my arms near the elbows,
Like handles on a fragile vase.
A vase full of problems.
Problems that swim and slosh and spill like dirty water.
Dirty water kills flowers.
Perhaps in time they can help me to grow flowers,
Like the ones I grow in the gardens.
They sit me down opposite the doctor and he asks me things,
But it’s only when you’re truly alone that things become clear.
Who is this person?
Who inhabits this pile of meat?
Is he asking me this, or am I asking myself?
Slowly rotting, slowly dying, alone from the start.
Searching for meaning,
Self-preservation,
Fighting the voices.
He asks questions, I nod.
I am but a fragile vase.
He is trying to empty the dirty water.
He is a good man.
I am taken back down the corridor.
They hold my arms near the elbows,
Like handles on a fragile vase.
A vase empty of problems,
Problems that no longer swim and slosh and spill like dirty water.
Now in my room, I fill my vase again with water,
Dirty as it might be.
For without water I cannot grow flowers.

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