Irretitus Poem by Alex Aamoth

It's cold,
dark.
I don't know how long I've been here,
days, weeks, years?
They're starving me, making me weak.
Who are they? What do they want?
I don't even know 2+2=5 anymore.
They're making me forget,
I keep calling out, only for rats to answer.
I can't move my arms, nor my legs, nor my head.
It's too easy to lie to them, to shorten the sessions,
but they find out, wheedle away at my brain,
to remove those pesky thoughts.
What thoughts? WHY AM I HERE?
What is this place? Who is my brother?
All I know is that I'm,
Itching to get away.