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,
in the dust