the locked ward

don't touch my hair, she screamed
as my fingers
reached between
the golden waves
and pulled out again
clutching locks
of still tight curls
in my fist,
my mans fist
compared to the size of hers,
knotted and fixed on the sheets


i relax my hand and let it roam clumsily
in awkward lumbering steps
over her paper white skin
it must feel like i'm made of sandpaper to her
my skin looks dirty
my healthy glow seems indecently diseased
in the sterile blindness of white washed walls
and steamed sheets
my throat tastes of silence
the kind that chokes you quietly
because you dare not even splutter and cough
to break it free

and I know that she's not there
that she's away
where none of this can hurt her
looking past the walls
of her tomb into the
tv lined prison walls of her head
where the reality of death blasts out
like a sing a long chorus
the whole audience can join in
where the final credits
aren't really that final
but just a break between
two episodes