I will never tell them 

Of the man in hospital chair beside me,

Chest hair poking through blue paper scrubs, 

More than was on his head. 

His locks like dull gray wires on scalp, 

Jutting into the air as if charged, 

Leaving a shiny full moon patch of skin on top. 

I will never tell them 

The way his beard seemed to stretch as he bent my direction,

Joining forces with the follicles on his chest, 

The way his breath seemed to steal mine as he occupied my space. 

I will never tell them 

About the man whose name starts with M. 

They will know I could not look him in the eyes to see their color. 

They will not know how old he looked when he stretched my way, 

Voice barely audible over the din 

Of other patients screaming and thrashing in their restraints, 

Yells of babies sucked out under drugged hazes, 

The wild fantasies of diseased minds. 

They will not know. 

I will never tell them 

How his muscles flexed when he stood, 

Shouting at another patient, 

The fight, 

His eyes seeking mine as if for approval. 

They will know I did not look. 

I will never tell them how he took my hand, 

Mumbling into my ear about how soft was my skin, 

Arms draped over my wheelchair uninvited 

As I huddled under blankets. 

I will never tell them 

How my best friend watched, 

My teddy bear given to me at birth. 

Although not human, 

I regret my inability to sheild her eyes from this abomination of a man. 

She will know that I tried to tell him no. 

She will know that staff walked by, 

Blind to my waving hands, 

Unable to hear the silent whoosh of air passing through my damaged vocal chords

As I begged for their assistance. 

I will never tell them 

The way he rubbed my back or traced my arm 

Before settling his hands too high on my thigh to be polite. 

I cannot say more here. 

I will never tell them

About the ice in my stomach, 

Flooding through my body, 

Already numb to my circumstance, 

Afraid that he would merely lift my withered body from my chair 

And do what he intended on the floor. 

No faith had I that staff were the slightest bit of help. 

The interest of other patients in my voiceless body 

Was a welcome distraction to the psychiatrist 

Doling out necessary medication to those more dangerous than I. 

I will never tell them 

What he did to me in the common area, 

Stuffed bear the only one present of mind enough to bear witness. 

Therapist has a word for his actions, 

Not one I had ever intended to apply to my story, 

Something reserved for the unfortunte lot of others, 

Assualt. 

I will never tell them 

His name like jagged teeth 

Or the way his hands wandered without consent. 

For in their minds I am nothing without coorboration, 

And HIPPA law will prevent that. 

After all, was I not merely a mental patient anyway?