Straightjacket.

The walls are white, pale and kind. Almost soft,
gentle. Musical, magical. Mayhap mystical if you
believe in that kind of mistake. Slivers of light,
but light ever-where, never-where we expected it
to be. Hounds and hands, hindsight is
frightening to recall, but it's empty here, just
safe, beyond the electric humming of lights.
Slivered lights, cut by the shadows by accidents
attempted on purpose. Never-where. The walls
are soft.
So soft. Lean against them, touch breathe.
Touch.
Touch. Tou -
Can we? Can - touch. Why won't we reach, can
we reach?
The locked, the trapped. A tired arm,
disobeying, lazy. Exhaustive lift the hand but
down by sides it refuses to move up. A bored
hand, disgusted with the abuse of being loved.
Lift the other. Lift, lift to touch. The walls are
soft - NEED to touch. Tou - can't reach. Can't
lift.
The joy of holding, of hugging, turned back. In a
carricature of a child's playfulness. Hug yourself,
myself, ourself. Hold close and tight.
Smiles, smiles.
The walls we see, lean against them and they
give slightly. The walls see. We're here.
The windows have bars, not iron decorations.
The walls are white not plastic.
Soft, soft - throw yourself, them-self, we-self at
them. No pain.
But scream.
Our throat burns.