there was nothing authentic
inside the asylum of her mind
sadistic serotonin receptors
freeze dried her brain into
a PTSD disaster

in the quiet ward they brought her
Thorazine at nine, noon and five,
turning the Lifetime channel
on with its salient dramas to
sensitize her into automating
more convincingly

her pool ball eyes and
anxious jaw hard as porcelain
against the notion of love
forging her emotions
to the highest bidder while whispering
pseudonyms into the white
laboratory lapels of their jackets
as they blindfolded her with
their coats of arms

Written by Sara Fielder © Jan 2016