From a Generation of Wrist Slitting and a Sick Sense of Humor

In a white room bolted to the floor
The alarm clock flashes 4:29 AM
One more minute and she’ll open the door.

She’s nearly 2 minutes late
She enters with a flashlight
Calling ‘checks’ on my psychological state.

3 and ½ hours and I’m out
But something in me doesn’t want to leave
Because the outside harbors doubt.

Half hour later I fall asleep
And in two I awake
To eat food that won’t keep.

I sit in the waiting area
Till mom walks in the door
And I give in to the hysteria.

I cling to her crying
She sympathetically holds me
Because she knows I’m trying.

We talk for awhile
On the way back home
And she loses her denial

We arrive home
Everyone is quiet
And I need to be alone

I can no longer win
I think as I
Take a razor blade to my skin