A weekend planned,
A script to play,
And I must act,
No choice.
No say.
The table set with rigid fear,
Control disguised as birthday cheer.
She chose the meals, the drinks, the place.
Expects a smile worn on my face.
They call it love, this brittle hand,
But freedom's not what she demands.
It’s presence first, performance too.
And silence when it’s hurting you.
Because to say ‘this isn’t me’
Would shatter the pretence they see.
No choices left, not even small.
Not food, not voice, not will at all.
But still I’ll go,
I always do,
Guilt screams too loud, for me not to.
And when I cry once they’re asleep,
It’s just another promise to keep.
My freedom would feel worse than pain,
So I return, again, again.
A party guest without a say,
Just hoping I survive the day.
22 days after being an inpatient at the a mental health hospital