They said I was mad.
Sick in the head.
It was the illness that made me do it.
And how could anyone doubt I was crazy,
after that performance in the courtroom.
But I'll tell you a secret.
I'm not crazy.
I did it because I wanted to.
I suppose it's good, that
they said I was mad.
Because now I'm stuck in this
sterile, white room
this box of pills and soft, blunt objects.
Clinical and devoid of color
                                         emotion
                                         life.
I can feel it draining away my sanity,
this empty life with quiet nurses and paper slippers.
If I wasn't crazy before they admitted me,
I will be if they ever let me out.
But I suppose it's not that bad.
I suppose it's better than prison.
I suppose.