headspace
there are doors
inside her head, kind of like
the hallways in the clinic.
white and red and green
with little namecards
hung on ropes, on
steel nails, with lips,
with mouths, with teeth.
their voices are sticky
like surgical glue.
which one is right?
they all pull her toward them
as if she is tied to
a thousand conflicting
invisible strings.
“i don’t feel very good,”
she is thinking, walking on,
the hallway echoing
with each footfall.
the walls twist and curl
around themselves.
there are doctors
with hollow grins, syringes,
there are too many colours,
too many doors.
the namecards are faces
extending from the material,
screaming her name.
maybe the cough syrup
or the pill bottle
or the headphones and noise
so loud her thoughts go
quiet, or the head
in her hands by the dinner table—
the acetaminophen, or
unwashed hair and
unanswered texts and
pencil sharpener blades.
where do you go,
which threshold do you cross,
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