I cross my heart,
I’d rather die.
They’ll put that ice pick
through my eye.
I hate these men’s
white coats and ties,
elitist morals,
lofty lies.
“A gentle cure,
they’re pacified.”
“Stir them up!
They can’t deny!”
Their patients, playthings,
victimized.
I’ve seen them staring.
I’ve heard their sighs.
“We cannot to help,”
“too strange, too shy,”
“Hysterical.”
They didn’t try.
Here it comes!
I grip my thighs—
They put the ice pick
through my eye.
Didn’t hurt much.
Now who am I?
Who am I?
Who am I?
Who am I?
Piece at Encounters Magazine, page 77.
(Photograph by Andrew Zhu)