The Chip Loser

he had drool hanging down
and his eyes at war.
they moved like broken scanners,
side to side,
searching for something
that no longer existed.

he said he had a microchip,
that the psychiatrist had planted it,
that it rummaged through his files
and yanked out traumas
like rotting roots.

I saw him in the dining room,
hiding the pill under his tongue,
pretending to take it
while the rest swallowed without hope.
he said nothing,
but my discomfort spoke in silence.
I offered him a napkin once.
he wiped himself.
no thank you,
no words.
just silence,
something close to dignity.

later, he came to find me,
told me the chip was a lie,
just a made-up story,
and that I was the real loser.
I told him,
“maybe you’re right.”
he laughed,
or maybe twisted into one.
I’m not sure.

it didn’t last.
he punched a guard.
they restrained him again—
the drool, the screaming,
a body begging for peace
while everyone looked away.

I stayed still,
clutching that wrinkled napkin in my hand,
as if that small gesture
was more real
than the meds
or the reinforced doors of the ward.

Fragments of Dignity

This is a story about institutionalized humanity: how systems designed to "heal" can also erase identity, how madness is sometimes clearer than reason, and how gestures—small, silent, uncelebrated—are the true acts of rebellion.

We must stop pathologizing the pain that doesn’t fit neat categories, and start seeing people—really seeing them—even when they drool, scream, or whisper conspiracy theories about chips. Because perhaps the real delusion is thinking the system is sane.

We owe each other more than compliance. We owe each other recognition.