dear oliver,
they say treatment
exhausts you. that
it drags the living
soul out of a human
and places handcuffs
on their wrists, then
without any pity, or
mercy, scraps their
body across a cement
of misery.

they say that you
fall asleep quickly.
in a dull world where
beauty is a blur of
lines sagging down
a canvas of bone and
skin.

they say you wish
to talk to me. yet
your lips have lost
their magic, the
glitter has run dry.
oops, you lost
your fairy wings.

that’s a good thing,
right?

now you can’t fly
away from us.

right?

quinn