By: Holly Yates
I bend my arms up and inject the needle into my right pupil
life is so much fun when every breath tastes of bleach
does god laugh at my unmistakable, beautiful insanity
as I’m hands deep in this little make-shift lobotomy?
I know they’re all on the stakes again, too many saviors
standing over bodies and I can’t feel where I put all the bandages
doctor! doctor! attendant! you will surely need more dressings
because blood always streams downward from the eyes
did Jesus die for men in lab coats carrying pills, self-proclaimed liberators?
my brain oozes in my bare hands with all its eroded peroxide
in the end nothing matters except psycho-drama, psycho-surgery
watch me as I extract my misery because they name it hysteria
I take the tissue and place it in the landfill of mental disorders
I remove the rod, and ask myself: when did I fix myself with plaster?
I glued myself together, but never get it right with each leucotomy
tell me, mother, sister, father, brother, where am I? and can you even see me?
I’m tired of fallen angels, I’ve already fallen on the filthy floor, praying for light
parts of me in arms of scalpels when I just want arms of an embrace
so I’m here moving my tongue but no one hears me scream out: s a v e m e
I can see God spelled backwards in the words attendants use for depression
the black dress of an attendant blurs, I see her big eyes in fluorescent gleam
she pulls out a needle from her pocket, syringe stuck full of glue
injections never change because tears still reflect inside mirrors
doctor knows, attendant knows, precision proves hard in a 300 second procedure
strange and stranger to think doctors won’t ever request lobotomies
attendant injects needle into my arm but I’m full of novocaine and don’t want help
I stare at the pools of blood on the floor, surely they will need more bleach
but you can only find it inside of me because I’m doused with pure insanity
so take apart my head and say it’s alright because doctors here use sterile gauze
maybe I’m just a little girl soaked in screams and God never even notices
but I’m laughing because God is dead and no one cares because believing is seeing
which one sounds the best, transorbital, lateral, frontal, prefrontal?
I’m only asking because this morgue needs more press coverage and bandages
and everyone around me is sewed together, their outside haphazardly salvaged
I hear them scratching inside chrome compartments and scraping their rotten minds
except I’m laughing and crying because I force- feed myself expired peroxide
and lobotomy is the only word that matters in this story, it pierces the white of my eye and I saved the doctors all the trouble, keep all that precious plaster! for I’ve already taken myself apart, brain underneath floor, because I won’t let them touch my mental disease anymore.