i lay in the quiet room and i saw patterns

the door was locked shut, and no one else was there

i knew that i’d tried to make my sleep last longer

i knew i was hurt, but didn’t really care

for what is the pattern, i thought, in revulsion?

how can i make sense of anger, or mistrust?

they don’t seem to want to give me back my freedom —

but still i see patterns,

patterns

in the dust