Three Hundred Days

When did my room become a prison?

These white walls, hallucinations of pads meant to keep me safe.

These teal bed sheets my captors, constricting,

Restrictions I forced on myself out of resentment and fear.

This was never the plan.

This was never the plan.

This was never the plan.

Where has the color gone?

I shakily remember all the vivid reds and blues,

The beautiful stains that cast over the sky at dawn -

Now only turning into blackness, an endless darkness when I wake

Leaving me in a world I cannot venture.

The good days are only good days after three hundred bad days.

It is as though I am soaked in wet tar, mixed with cement.

My body glued to the floor of this bedroom where I am exhausted, but sleep is an eternity away from my lingering thoughts.

Ideation.

Ideation.

Ideation.

Impulsive anger, the desire for impulse

Birds with broken wings cannot fly, broken bones never set the same.

I cannot breathe.

I cannot breathe.

I cannot breathe.

I scuttle back to bed, pulling myself by my fingernails as I drag my heavy body.

When will the executioner be in to greet me?