Lobotomy

This room is as white as an eggshell. Sterile silence.

A light hangs above me, too bright for my eyes.

It glares at me, as I lie in my bed among stiff sheets

and try to speak. But the walls are soundproof.

/

They have strapped me down and clipped my wings

with their scissors; their sharp, surgical precision

as they pluck out my feathers, one by one.

Soon I am bare. A new-born, raw, neonatal flesh.

/

Then I am cleaned, until I smell of medicine.

They scrub me from head to toe, so that

I glisten bright pink, a dissected bird on a slab.

Here, in this room, I am their experiment.

/

I lie there, and stare up at the jaundiced lamp

as they come to examine all my secrets.

I am a fetish for their syringes, their fingers

poking and prodding me, this delicacy of skin and bone.

/

When they yank open my mouth, my teeth cannot help

but bite down. So they rip them out, root, pulp, and all.

I run my tongue over my gums, tasting hot, sexual iron

that burns my throat, like acid. I can smell bleach.

/

It makes me quiver, rises from my stomach like a fire

in the very pit of my being. In the darkness I must chastise

my tongue. They drug me, not for the pain

but so I cannot speak. My voice makes them unsteady.

/

They need to concentrate on the task at hand.

One wrong move, and it will all be over. Like a storm.

As spontaneous as a miscarriage. An accident.

I can already feel my yolk running away from me,

/

a delicate, yellow balloon. A target in the sky.

But there is no wind here - only the ceiling, bone-white.

I hear mine groaning. The ache of living has taken

its toll on them, and on me. So I have surrendered.

/

When they are done taking myself from me

they tighten the straps. I cannot breathe or move.

I am just a lump now, a tumour on the skin.

I have to be lanced away before I spread.

/

They bring in their tools, their artist's knives.

I stare at them, my magpie's eyes bright

in the lamplight. I can already feel the metal

inside me, penetrating, as my flesh begins to panic.

/

But before they come inside, they must open me,

like a flower. Coax me out of my hermit's shell.

Thus, they take the knives and slice me, top to bottom.

My nerves scream. They will not shut up.

/

I want to close my eyes, but they are drawn to the blood

like the suicidal to high places. I am burning alive,

a witch on the stake. I feel the fire rising through me,

incinerating the dust gathered in my mind.

/

I stopped looking there, in the dark corners,

a long time ago. But now I have no choice

as they take their instruments and cut off my head.

I must look at who I really am. But I don't want to.

/

Instead, I try to escape. The flames have burned away

the dull, grey fog, the haze in my head.

But they are too quick for me, faster than falling stars.

They shove me back into my resting place

/

and break my fingers. Break me. But not all at once.

That would be too great a kindness for the likes of me.

I bite my lips as they take away my hands,

and then my arms and legs too, for good measure.

/

I am spilling out over this bed, like pain from a wound.

Blood, pooling in a skull. In my hands and eyes.

Only the bars can contain me. Prisoner.

Where is my last phone call? Stupid. No one would answer.

/

Then I hear a voice, feel warm, rancid breath.

They are trying to soothe me

as they slice off the top of my head

and plunge their knives inside my soul.

/

For a moment, I am an angel.

Bright eyes and wings.

I watch myself from above

and begin to ascend.

/

Then I am back in the room, with the knives,

and I scream and cry, but they will not stop,

instead they dig for red fossils and

plant seeds of glass in my flesh

/

and rip me open from heart to soul

where I cannot hide or run away

as they cut me out all at once

until there is nothing left.

/

After the operation,

they untie me from my bed.

But I can no longer move.

I lie there, still and silent.

/

Now I'm allowed visitors,

but no one comes anyway.

I just stare at these four walls.

I am used to darkness now.

/

I am lying there, waiting.

For what, I no longer know.

Maybe I once did, but now

remembering things is harder.

/

This room is even colder now.

I feel like the ceiling is closing in.

I think this bed is my grave.

The walls are as white as death.

/

/

/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/92xvol/vice/e3amvvc

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/934mzb/how_are_you/e3am7ha

(Had to add in line breaks as I'm so technologically illiterate, I can't figure out how to separate stanzas whoops)