I’m the mad psychiatrist.
A shadow self lurking inside the pockets of the white coat,
like a tiny black imp, twisted little mouth grinning,
bent twig fingers pinching, digging deep.
Voices in my head:
policemen
druggies
lawyers
rapists
murderers.
I listen to them.
Their words twist around each other like roses and thorns and whisper like the wind,
swaying a shrunken brown chrysalis clinging to the stem.
The wind murmurs change,
but how can the chrysalis regurgitate the caterpillar? I must be a butterfly, a butterfly or nothing.
Voices in my head:
white knight
black knight
caterpillar
butterfly.
~
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