I told you that I wanted to see God, and you reached
into my mouth and spun my goodbyes into cries
for help and sent me away. Did you think I was going
to some magical place, some cocoon of therapy
and locked doors that would transform me into something
that was beautiful and new and safe? Did you hope
I wouldn’t remember why I ended up in that cage?
I do remember, and remember it well—
that scare when they gave the patients real
knives in the cafeteria. The shit-stained
underwear in the hallway and the roommate
who promised that he wouldn’t kill me
in my sleep. No, I didn’t grow the wings
that you wanted; the disease didn’t fly away.
But I did become a different animal. I was reborn
as a Fenris wolf; I still hunger for God.
Will you put your hand in my mouth again?