I stared down the barrel of a Glock 9, go-to handgun for undercover cops and preferred weapon for anyone with a limited ability to carry and conceal. First thing I asked myself was, “Where did she hide that thing?” The second: “How did I miss it?” After an hour of soaking in the splendor of her captivating green eyes, coal-black hair, and slender-but-buff figure, a third thought emerged: “I wonder if she’s dating anybody.”

I miss stockholm syndrome.

I miss the bliss

that came from ignorance

the ignorance that trapped me

in that cage of lies

lies better than these

half truths

and speculations

told to

and by

the one in front of you.

stockholm syndrome

that isn't realized

till it is gone

missed

but not missed

and thankful

for the clear

mind

freedom

has given.

my alliance

to these fabrications

is terrifying,

and I feel like

the free marionette

trapped

in it's nonexistant strings.

gilded with gold

bars of lies

metal or mental

i don't know.

the world outside

hurts my eyes

i can't tell

is it burning or shining?

i have the key

i could leave

it would be simple

but i don't.

you ask why

implore me to leave

because you know that this cage

this cage is my mind.

my illness has lied to me

for so long

told me what it thinks

i must hear.

terrible things

untrue things

lies of people

of ideas.

nothing

of

any

worth.

and

yet

i

listened.

because at times

it was the only thing

that heard my silent wishes

noticed my lonely days.

who wouldn't love

the thing

that paid attention

when all else seemed to fail?

so the untrue things

took root

and my mind

crumbled under the force

of empty promises

and empty threats

of a world imagined

to be hostile.

please tell me.

i just need to know.

does the liar choose the lie

or the lie the liar?

"Please, don't take me from my mother," my son said, pulling against me.

My heart dropped as I let his hand slip from my grasp. He clutched the Russian woman's legs, sobbing into her pants. She lifted him into her arms, and it took everything in me to not punch her. Constantly reminding myself I didn't want to accidentally hit him, I clenched my fists so tight that my nails were digging into my skin. The woman, coddling my baby as if he were hers, looked innocently at the officers standing behind me.

"Can me and my son go now?"

"No!" I screamed, pushing her down.

An officer grabbed my forearms while the other one helped the woman up.

"Ma'am, I think you should leave," the one helping her said.

My heart stuck in my throat. I hadn't seen my son since he ran away three years ago and the cops were stealing him from me again. I bucked and kicked at the police officer behind me who just held me tighter.

"Ma'am. Please stop fighting me."

"I will never!" I growled. Noticing my son's eyes, I said, "Do you remember me, Jason? Do you remember how I would hold you and tell you everything was okay while your dad screamed and threw things outside the door? Do you remember me singing to you?"

The police were talking but all I could see were my son's eyes. His expression hadn't changed but I could tell by the look in his eyes he remembered and felt guilty for leaving me alone with him. I kept trying, blurting out memories until she tried to stop me.

"Please stop talking to my son."

"You aren't his mother. You don't know him. You don't know how he got that scar on his forehead or the color of his favorite pacifier or how big he was at birth. Jason, please come home with me, sweetheart. I got rid of him. I went to rehab now. I'm better. Please, sweetheart."

Jason stepped towards me, and I could feel the warmth coming back into my life. But, he stopped just out of my reach, looking at me with cold eyes.

"You are not my mother," he said.

My mouth fell open and my body trembled. "Jason."

"That's not my name. I am not your son. I was never your son and I never will be. I'm happy you got clean. I'm happy you decided to love yourself. But I do not love you anymore and I never want to see you again."

Fearing I was imagining this, I tried to pinch myself. The minute pain was nothing compared to his words.

"Sure, she isn't my birth mother. But she has shown me the love and attention that a mother should show her child. She's been there. She's never put a man over me. I love her more than I can ever say I ever loved you."

I tried to speak, but the words dribbled out into choked sobs. I tried to say his name but couldn't get it out. Even after he and the woman left from my sight, I still couldn't find the sound to tell him how sorry I was for being a bad mom. How sorry I was that I left him in the mall without realizing it. How sorry I was for not fighting harder to get him back. It was too late now, with me going back to jail and him long gone. Once again, I had failed my only child and had no one to blame but myself.

You wanted me while I lay in the gutters.

Dirty and broken,

you took me in.

Though I did not want you,

you knew what was best.

You rescued me.

I thought you caused me pain,

when you continued when I cried no.

I thought I would die,

when the blood kept its flow.

Now I see, that you love me

and I love you too.

For once in my life,

I am not alone

Your wrists burn. You know they must be purple by now. You welcome it all too willingly when he finally unties you. He’s freeing you. Freeing you to aimlessly walk around this dark hole in the ground, but it’s liberty nonetheless.

He talks. When you wouldn’t listen, the words were harsh, threatening to kill. When you gradually started to lose the energy to run, his voice softened to hush whispers. He insists that he had to do it. You’re precious. He needed you more than others did. After an eternity of hearing nothing but one voice, you have no choice but to see through their lens.

He makes himself sympathetic. He cries. He’s scared. Scared of losing you, scared of being sent to prison, or killed. You see this frightened boy, and your heart leaps.

He feeds you. Monsters and devils don’t feed others. They surely don’t do it as gently as he does. They don’t free you. They don’t rub your wrists. Their eyebrows don’t knit together worriedly. His do.

You have to accept him. With no one else around, he really is the only one who cares. You depend on him. You depend on him.

That’ll become a less frightening idea the longer you go without seeing the sun.

We go to school to get a job.

We're taught to be quiet.

We're taught to be still.

We're taught to be obedient.

Misbehaving? There's a drug for that.

We go to our job so we can retire.

We're taught to be quiet.

We're taught to be still.

We're taught to be obedient.

Not happy? There's a drug for that.

We retire and given to strangers to be cared for.

We're taught to be quiet.

We're taught to be still.

We're taught to be obedient.

Not obedient? There's a drug for that.

You live your life like the animals we eat.

They must be quiet.

They must be still.

They must be obedient.

And when the gate is open,

none of them will run...

No name describes this place better than Hell.

This place of constant despair,

That you must learn to bear.

Since nobody else can hear your yell.

Under this constant inhumanity.

When first molested, then abused,

You musn't be broken, only bruised.

Choose life! Even at the cost of your sanity.