The Prison of Forgetting

(I fear) the prison is (driving me mad. The doctor tells me it is) only in my mind.

I must (never allow myself to) trust the doctor. I have seen his (notebook. He does not) care for me. I am (not a) patient. (I am an experiment.)

These holes in my memory(—)were (they) always there?

(I think) the pills give (them to) me(. Even my) clear(est) thoughts (are like an old tapestry—faded and bare and eaten through by moths and mice.) I find myself (staring off into space, un)able to recall names and dates (or even what I was just thinking about.)

There are (ways. I track days scratching) tally marks on the floor beneath my bed. (I am running out of room, and I worry that) one day, with the doctor’s help, I will (not) remember what they mean.

Tomorrow I will get (out.) Better (to escape while) my mind is strong (than languish) in this place(.) I am (going) home.