Three Years in Hell

I hate the discrete, isolable quality of the noises in this house:
Coffee poured into a cup,
a cough,
a door opening.

Each noise is a sharp, piercing blow, a knife-slash.

My mind is torn to shreds,
suffocated.

My powers of concentration are sapped by the noises,
exhausted by them.

They kill me.

They are the opposite of white noise.

and I am trapped in this house......

Every word I speak drowns me,
as surely as if you stood on my head,
while I sunk beneath the waves.

Every word I hear destroys me,
until there is no me left.

Words rip apart my flesh,
tear apart my brain,
like hungry dogs.

And the pseudo-scientist therapist who knows nothing of cures,
arrogantly warns that talk of suicide is a thing to be treated,
supposing that is that I've got the funds or the insurance,
supposing that is in that arrogant way of the sophist,
supposing that is in that dogmatic and cunning way of a servant of the king.

You idiot pretender!
I cannot kill my self when my self has already been ripped to pieces by vicious hounds!

And friends who know nothing of the demands of writing advise:
"Write!  Write!"

While the knife-words drip with the blood of what used to be my thoughts,
and my self.

One sentence never formed whole before the slashing starts.