Handcuffed to the chair
and duct taped for good measure,
a captive audience
of sensory overload.
The plastic bag
suffocating
me, with your words,
and the physical representation
of my suffering.
The torturous drone
of your monologue,
a villainous diatribe
akin to sticking needles in my ear
nails on a chalkboard
detailing your nefarious plots.
Linda Blair’s got nothing
on these demons. Head
spinning, the exorcism
tearing from me
this useless information
a re-write, lopping off the fat
cutting
and trimming
a ransom letter of
words and symbols spelling
out gibberish
which would be speaking in tongues
if it weren’t already silenced.
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