doctors are performing
a living autopsy on my brain:
they need insight,
they want to restore me,
reboot me to original factory settings
i have become the subject:
the person contained in
three thick folders
of notes and observations,
prescriptions and medications
that’s what i am,
an experiment:
testing theories foreign to me
all around are the white coats,
the doctors, the experts, the specialists,
prodding me with their questions,
trying to de-code my answers,
writing more notes
i don’t want to care anymore what they think,
but i do:
they think what i know or feel isn’t quite real,
they talk soothingly about psychosis
in the clinical kind of remote terms
doctors use to avoid emotion:
vacant voices from outside
asking asking asking for answers
i don’t have