a - sy - lum
protection, shelter, safety
The voices in my head are planning an insurrection. It started when the angels came. They took me to Paradise and promised me so so so many things. But Paradise has padded walls and the angels’ hands are so so so cold. I was happy down on Earth. I didn’t need the angels or the bells.
I didn’t need their ambrosia or their Grace.
The wings are white, the halls are white, my mind is so so so white. I cannot think in colors anymore. The voices can and do and they still paint. I long to hold a brush again. I long to hold my mind in my own hands.
I wish I could remember the color of the sky.
We lived in a box with cut out windows and were happy. There were no bars but our hands. I could touch the sky back then. The angels tell me the sky has not changed, but I cannot see it. I grew a garden of broken glass and he picked me flowers every day. There are no flowers here.
There is no sky.
Fennel. Pansy. Columbine. Rue. I know I have forgotten one. Lavender? Rosemary? I cannot remember. I think it was blue blue blue, so frail and sweet, like he said I was, like he said I was supposed to be. But then I opened my mouth and the voices came out and he did not like me anymore.
I think it was my favorite.
I fear that I am drowning as only a fish can. I cannot breathe I cannot see I cannot speak oh God. They feed me cotton gauze on sugared spoons. They say it won’t hurt a bit and it doesn’t but that is worse. I feel nothing and suffocate in silence
But the voices scream.
He said it was for my own good but I am no good in here. The voices echo in the empty rooms, bounce off cold walls and half-full pill bottles. Crescendo, crescendo. They echo and echo and I cannot hear the angels over it. I try to stay within the lines, color within the lines, but the lines are uneven. I tell them the lines are uneven, I tell them it’s all wrong. I tell them, and…
The angels let me paint my own lines.
They hand me a brush and a paper and a smile, and say it is to help me and it does. Their hands are warm and the voices are scared but the brush is familiar and I paint my mind on a canvas. When I am done the angels come and look and tell me it is beautiful.
I almost believe them.
Rosemary, they tell me. You forgot about rosemary. And they show me pictures of the sky in May over oceans and parks so green green green it makes me cry. The world is beautiful, they tell me. Remember? Don’t you remember?
And this time, I think I do.
I didn’t need their ambrosia or their Grace.
The wings are white, the halls are white, my mind is so so so white. I cannot think in colors anymore. The voices can and do and they still paint. I long to hold a brush again. I long to hold my mind in my own hands.
I wish I could remember the color of the sky.
We lived in a box with cut out windows and were happy. There were no bars but our hands. I could touch the sky back then. The angels tell me the sky has not changed, but I cannot see it. I grew a garden of broken glass and he picked me flowers every day. There are no flowers here.
There is no sky.
Fennel. Pansy. Columbine. Rue. I know I have forgotten one. Lavender? Rosemary? I cannot remember. I think it was blue blue blue, so frail and sweet, like he said I was, like he said I was supposed to be. But then I opened my mouth and the voices came out and he did not like me anymore.
I think it was my favorite.
I fear that I am drowning as only a fish can. I cannot breathe I cannot see I cannot speak oh God. They feed me cotton gauze on sugared spoons. They say it won’t hurt a bit and it doesn’t but that is worse. I feel nothing and suffocate in silence
But the voices scream.
He said it was for my own good but I am no good in here. The voices echo in the empty rooms, bounce off cold walls and half-full pill bottles. Crescendo, crescendo. They echo and echo and I cannot hear the angels over it. I try to stay within the lines, color within the lines, but the lines are uneven. I tell them the lines are uneven, I tell them it’s all wrong. I tell them, and…
The angels let me paint my own lines.
They hand me a brush and a paper and a smile, and say it is to help me and it does. Their hands are warm and the voices are scared but the brush is familiar and I paint my mind on a canvas. When I am done the angels come and look and tell me it is beautiful.
I almost believe them.
Rosemary, they tell me. You forgot about rosemary. And they show me pictures of the sky in May over oceans and parks so green green green it makes me cry. The world is beautiful, they tell me. Remember? Don’t you remember?
And this time, I think I do.
Originally Published in Cauldron Anthology