Madhouse

By Izzah Husna

I spoke not about the tenancy Of the voices creeping on my skull Just racking, racking, racking Their filthy nails as they screamed A silent hysteria in unison. I see them in my nightmares Spiralling, going on and on and on Like a broken record. I spoke nothing of my insanity For I fear my hands be chained And I see no more of the sky. But so it has come to this, As I made my own bed a coffin As I make amends with the voices, Offering an approval to their slander– That I am my own asylum.