Terry F.

The Voices told him not to take his medication;
they were like angels, God, & demons.
Did he speak in tongues or gibberish?
Had the veil that had been placed over his mind at birth been torn—
the veil the Saints of Latter Days spoke of—
allowed the spirits to slip through and torment him—
extremely frightening and incredibly real?

The drink allowed him the Quiet,
the drugs, the Peace.
He did not know who he was—
either dosed or without the Anti’s.

Was he the man who rambled about invisible hands
stealing his thoughts while he slept?
Or the man who stripped down his cardboard walls
so that he could run away from the Unholy Ghosts
that were his constant companions?
Was he the man who could laugh with the little child
who had tried to practice witchcraft on him—
the little child who had led him astray?
Or was he the man who no longer believed
that the Spirit of Donald Trump or Bill Gates
watched him through the walls that became separate particles?

His parents had passed on an inheritance
that stripped him of his autonomy,
for he was either controlled from the inside
through little chemical rockets,
or from the outside by the cat and canary scrubs.

Code Gray was called,
and he was once again being pulled,
flushed through the bowels
of the bathroom-tiled basement.

One thought on “Terry F.

  1. Pingback: Summer mini-writing workshop | Sarah Lea Stories

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