The Snake Pit

December 16 2009 - 1 comment

Look at these markings that riddle my flesh like living Morse code;
These dots and dashes of teeth marks
One for every bite,
Every taste of blood that was “for my own good”
– Or so they tell me.

For I have been thrown into this pit of snakes
To be cured of this farficulate frenzy and illusive insanity.
– If men are tossed into the depths with asps and cobras to be driven to this ledge then maybe I can be saved.
Perhaps the light will switch on and all that is muddled together into twisted toadstool wires and balls of matted hair will correct itself and become the clear straight lines of reason;
With a ruler and a straight edge,
With a red pen of discerning judgment,
On my chart of progress, diagnosis, and treatment.
But the doctors and nurses know nothing.
Caught up in a maelstrom of tumultuous affairs and romantic feeling
That is,
The product of sanity.
– Or so they tell me.

There I stood at the door, waiting to see the sun and the trees
Only to be grabbed by the wrists and ankles and swung into this hole.
“Don’t worry dear, it’ll only take a minute.”
“You should be used to this by now.”
“You’ll be cured soon enough.”
Tossed in, like a rag doll; a copy just like the others,
Without sound mind or personal opinion.
Just like all the other girls.
Just like the ones who built their own hearts and follow the path laden with creatures from the Moorish depths and evils beneath them.
Just like the rest of them, I was to be.
– Or so they told me.

But they never expected my renaissance,
My rebirth, if you will.
Arisen from the grave, the ashes, the pit of snakes
Still with my scars, as badges of bravery and courage,
I will leave this pitiful institution.
The doctors and nurses with mouths slack-jawed like yokels as they see this rag doll,
Standing tall, covered with bandages and bloody scabs,
Take her first steps out into the world again.
I’ll never make it.
I’ll crash and burn like the rest of them.
I’ll fall back into prescribed madness and single minded femininity.
Or so they tell me.
But I know better.

About Angelique Jenkins
First things first...Angelique was forced, unwillingly, to start blogging by me. She would rather spend her nights alone, crying over spilt ice cream, earwig attacks, and reading parodies of bible stories.