I can’t write about what I want.
If I do they’ll ship me off again.
They’ll lock me up and throw away that
key.

I deserve to be shipped off.
I deserved to be hanged, drawn and quartered
by the burliest of executioners
with a rope of braided silk
sliced with the epitome of a knife
and I hope my innards spill out
like gut colored ribbons and streamers
(celebrating my suffering)
and finally tied to the four horsemen of my recovery
pulling in four different directions.
Four different ways to “go”.

I don’t know who to believe anymore.
I am not a bad person.

Still not.