by Nick Gisburne
You won’t remember when we slit your skin,
To fit you with the persecution probes.
You won’t remember when the scans begin
To cripple you, with seizures from their strobes.
You won’t remember how we broke your brain,
Or why the floor is flooded with its fat.
You won’t remember life before the pain.
There won’t be any time for all of that.
You won’t remember who you ever were,
Or what you once imagined you could be.
You won’t remember anything of her.
She wouldn’t want you, patient 303.
Tomorrow, when we chain you to the wall,
You won’t remember anything at all.
