You used the microphone again,

against your bitter judgment.

The price follows you.

Now you are in a white dress,

the one that comes with visible shackles,

the one for insanity on paper.

It grips your arm—your hand.

Your fingers blanch,

icicles fused to bone.

Your elbows seize,

rusted hinges screaming silently

when you try to bend them.

Do they believe you?