A patient named Macabre

Don’t swing your theories at her. She’s at war.
Don’t believe her when she says that they are creeping,
launching towards her from every corner
like soldiers closing in on enemy fortress.
You don’t see her flailing her body around like bullets flying.
You don’t hear her singing Dies Irae in the battlefield
not as a hymn of courage, but of treason –
fabricated truths like the sun in her waking hours
or the moon in her dying days;
the perfection of her crooked teeth or the mole
in her whitewashed face you’ve so long examined.
She’s but a specimen etherised on your love chair,
listening to you ramble on about how much you’ve overthrown
the contours of her psyche. The very ones they have invaded.
Soon, all her bullets will run out and they will attack her;
feet first, legs next – a tree chopped down to its disgrace.
Arms to her sides, branches mustering a cross that signify surrender
as they eat her out of shape; perforating the sheet that is her soul.
She won’t tell. Of course, she won’t tell you. Not even a scream.
Instead, she will let you counsel her with your prescriptions
and like a white flag pressed onto the dirt,
she will let you unsettle the hinges of her mind.

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