There’s nothing worth claiming
in this sterile cottage of beds
where mirrors watch and secrets
are only as safe as the whispers that hide them.
It is not popular to be called insane
even though it is a plague that stalks
every mind, and torments the brain
with visions the tongue won’t describe.
I came for help, a map that had little green trees
marking the path back to sanity, or that is what
I envisioned therapy would provide.
You don’t stroll through nightmares
or talk your way out of hell where
every thought is bolted to a rusty lock
that has long lost its key.
White coats with needle hands
stab me into faux relaxed long enough
to tighten the leather to keep me
from flying the coup of metal ribs.
One chases famous only to wish
it would leave you the hell alone.
I’ve honeymooned with every tabloid it seems,
although I wasn’t asked if I wished
to be married to their distortions.
Oh, why can’t I just be feral?
After all isn’t that what feeds
the top spot in the headlines.
I suppose someone will want to publish
my memoirs, collect all those inky journals,
to expose the only prayer I ever wrote
was a plea for the window ledge
to be wide enough to hold both feet.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
