cervantes

Ophellia


Oh God.
Get it off me.

Sobbing,
Grinding the soap
Upon my hands,
Blistered and raw.


Everyone I watch,
They dont perceive
The grime that pollutes
Their walking corpses.

They dont sense the
Poisoned liquid that
Streams through their vessels.
I cringe when they touch me.

Diseased.

They say thats why Im here,
In this safe place,
My sanctuary.
No more psychotics
Trying to poison me
With their touch.

Except my guardians,
Waiting to take me to
The room of cushions.
Curious bars over the glass...

as if im INSANE.