In the Illusion's Arms
Her inner struggle knows no bounds.
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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