Windows to concrete. Ghosts of sanity smoking together as though huddling against the world. Maneating sedatives prowl the corridors looking for victims. You will not shut off my personality. You will not condemn my name as unfit. The hunted can hunt. My 9 year old self watches, anxious and disappointed. I peer around the corner, braless and determined. I’m going to dance like a ballerina to any tune they play because I have to get out of here. My soft soul can’t survive it.
Miniature Moon 