HOUSE OF THE DEAD
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HOUSE OF THE DEAD

In the asylum, every day

Was an occasion for feelings –

Gathered round an invisible table,

Waiting to be healed. Like injured birds,

We were broken and mad, slit-wristed

And imbalanced. For two months

We grew restless. During group meetings

We told them, we don’t belong here.

We wanted out, and everything else

That came along with the pain.