In the Illusion's Arms

The first wave of illusion is always the worst,

right when it picks me up and cradles me

in its ever-provoking tide of whimsy

that nonetheless bears dread.

I remember getting lost, once,

caught under the realm of one

that bled into others, building.

Each apparition gave its greeting,

smiles like the blades of scythes,

and I knew I was trapped in my senses.

The talks and the pills didn't work

as they tried to drag me out of a time

where I was thriving in ways unknown

even as my exterior began to crumble.

I thought I knew better, "never again,"

but as soon as you flush the tablets

down the porcelain toilet bowl

it's only a matter of time before

the cracks begin to reappear.

The illusions began again in earnest,

each one more troubling than the last,

and soon I found myself in straits

where I walked barefoot in the rain.

Someone tried to help me, but by then

I didn't know friend from enemy,

and the little white room I'd left

welcomed me back with open arms.

The nurses were nice, if a tad smiley,

but I wondered where I'd been

since I never felt so alive as then.

"Hello" and "goodbye" meant little,

as patients shifted in and out,

but I tried to keep my guard up

while therapy tried to rework me.

I wouldn't have it, I was done,

I had had enough of white coats...

but my mother's phone call told me

that she was worried, that she knew

how I struggled and struggled without end.

"Please" was the word that cut me.

And so I battled my illusions

even as they assailed me,

and my senses began to clear

as if there'd never been a problem.

But this time I knew better (I told myself)

because illusions were my secret

that was best not shared at all.

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