I have loathed the dialogue of tile;
Even more: vacant eyes, white-powder toothpaste, and steel.
No cupcakes, no cokes, no shoelaces, no hope;
Just a cold, blank room with a desk.
My dreams die on these scribbled pages,
Where I escape the long hallways and locked windows.
Like when they watch you shower: feels like rape.
I seek solitude in sleep.
My throat swells with suppression;
I swallow my tongue to avoid expression.
Their pink pills turn people into zombies—
Medication misery, not for me.
I will
talk my way out of here instead.

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