The dark-suited man slithered,
Shock box in hand,
To our bedsides, four girls, innocent, naked,
One by one.
Zapping currents through us,
Young bones cracked, brains bruised
By his cold-fingered electrified touch.
In collusion with white-skirted nurses,
The limb holders,
He slinked back into the early morning frost,
Steaming hot coffee in hand,
Leaving us quieted, flat as pancakes.
The soft white sheet covering her,
Did not move at all.
His shocks had stolen her, skin and bone,
That beautiful flaxen-haired child,
Silencing her questioning stream
Of daily chatter, her ballet dreams.
In her innocence, she had spoken for me,
muted and crushed by endless sizzlings.
Inches away, I did not hear her silent call
As she slipped into death’s embrace,
Where her little fingers hold the violin
strings to my heart,
Playing them like a marionette
In the gentle breezes of heaven.
Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.
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