The suicide factory is a place where every sign is a design flaw. It's a waiting room on the 7th floor of a Detroit VA hospital where you find yourself, no longer a person, but a lab rat. The memories of driving a multimillion-dollar destroyer in the Black Sea feel as distant as your president being a TV host. Here, dignity is a forgotten word, and the act of being seen is a humiliation you wish to erase. You're a veteran, but also a patient, caught in a cycle of hospitalization, termination, and rehabilitation. The poem you are about to read is a raw and unsparing look at the spaces where trauma and the system collide, forcing a confrontation with the question of what it means to be a man in a world that strips away every last bit of your dignity. It's a journey through the hallways of memory, where you are forced to choose between screaming and continuing the experiment.
Welcome to the suicide factory
I spotted a Design flaw. Design flaw. Design flaw.
in the 7th floor waiting room of the Detroit VA.
What kind of patient was this sign designed for?
Not this fucking lab rat!
I drove a multimillion destroyer
at 3AM in the Black Sea
when my president was the host of a TV Show.
Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I don’t want to remember.
My friends have nightmares of rape,
IEDs,
Dead bodies,
Flipped Humvees
Crying babies,
Explosions
Mortars,
Blanket parties,
Almost dying,
And I can’t remember the last time my dick worked as intended.
I dare you to describe impotence to a woman mid-coitus
in a way that doesn’t humiliate all parties involved.
I see a sign like this and think;
“Dignity? Why would I expect dignity
in the waiting room on the 7th floor of the suicide factory?”
They forced me to strip naked,
I did not consent.
I did not consent.
I did not fucking consent.
The experiment must continue!
The experiment must continue!
The experiment must continue!
I cry about it.
Nightmares and flashbacks remind me.
I should have fought, or screamed or anything…
I knew better.
I had to continue the experiment.
Or they would call security.
And some nurse
Behind some Counter
Would Make A Choice:
Hard or soft restraints?
With my luck it would be that nurse
That gave me a dirty look
And asked me to quantify
My emotional pain
With a number
Somedays, I wish they pulled
Out a Rorschach
That looked just enough
not like an impaled unicorn
To be confused
For my feelings
(Return to Scene)
Why Can’t The Federal Government Afford
A Better Fucking Sign?
A quick review of twitter reveals the trending hashtags of the day;
#governmentshutdownbecausewall
#obamasbirthcertificateisfrommars
#trumpstaxesaregrabbingvenus
Moments later.
Mid-egress.
I saw an elderly veteran handcuffed
Near the elevators by two hospital police officers
Not only did I look away.
I moved out of sight.
I didn’t want the Veteran to remember being seen.
The police tucked him in the elevator
I hope he survives
I’m not sure I did
“Is this what it means to be a man?”
Crying in my car
Finally, I feel safe.
I should feel proud.
Everything led to this.
Bootcamp
Trauma
PTSD
Nightmares
Anxiety attacks
GI BILL
Compensation
Disability x3
Termination x2
Hospitalization x3
Vocational Rehabilitation
Rinse and repeat
Today, I escape the suicide factory.
That should count for something…
How many licks can a veteran take
before ideation inspires means
and means justifies a plan?
The poem leaves us with a question that hangs in the air, not just for the veteran but for us all: How many licks can a veteran take before ideation inspires means and means justifies a plan? The "suicide factory" is not just a building; it's a a microcosm of a system that fails to see the humanity it is meant to serve. The veteran's journey is a stark reminder that escaping one's demons is an ongoing battle, and true healing requires more than just a sign on a wall. It demands a fundamental shift in how we confront trauma, both personal and institutional.
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