Very carefully we are tended to, old and broken exhibits. You can look, we say, but never touch. We are vulgar mummies, peeling and cracked on the outside, and empty of our hearts. A new room, a new floor. Here the faces are stone and the doctors scared.
Nurses hand out medicine like delicious candy.
We cry and scream when the light slashes our faces, and the songs are too loud. Voices, voices, shrill as the beak of a bird. We all echo, we are caught in the fantasia of ourselves. Twirling through the white noise of this cathedral, The sounds of the past and memories vivid chill my bones. The ghost of myself.