it always comes down to i can’t let you leave. to calling the cops if it comes to that. this poem remembers the cops. the handcuffs they put around its adolescent wrists that day, supposedly to save its life. this poem remembers the locked room, the psychiatrist with his metal desk and no-nonsense metal questions. this poem remembers the steely waiver the principal made it sign promising that if it attempted again, it would not be on school property, for liability reasons, of course. so many stratagems to force this poem to live, so few to make life feel worthwhile. this poem is not here to
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