Ma’am, all my friends’ lives are in danger.

It’s all in their heads, you see,

And it’s burning up their brains.  

They’re luckless and loveless and pretty soon they’ll be lifeless.

Was it some sort of mad scientist that did it?

Well, you see, this is how they do it:

They take a very long needle and stick it through your skull.

Your skull is a wall of feathers as far as that needle is concerned;

Your skull stops nothing.

Protects nothing.

Not because there’s nothing to protect, of course.

There’s everything to protect.

The needle goes in, and it hurts somewhat but it is really only a prick.

It goes deeper still, and it will surprise you to know that you don’t die.

It goes all the way to the very center of your brain and you’re still alive,

You walk fine, talk fine, though as for thinking there’s a bit of a problem.

But you don’t notice it, do you?

You don’t notice the children walking around in the hallways with needles in their brains.

I told you,

It doesn’t seem like a big deal.

But here’s the part where it gets bad.

Your skull, it keeps your brain cozy and warm,

That’s the way it should be,

But now that the needle is in–well, have you ever gone to a doctor’s office where they stuck a needle in your arm just for the sake of things?

These sorts of needles have bottles on their ends

And this one has a flask. There’s vodka in it sometimes.

Not really a painkiller when it’s mixing in with your gray matter.

Disinfectants kill your good cells too.

It’s all sorts of poison and it gets pushed in.

Now who does the pushing?

Why, that’s everyone who slaps them in the back of their head because they were stupid,

Or because they wanted to congratulate them,

Or because there was a mosquito there.

So the poison goes in and the brain doesn’t liquefy, that’s morbid.

It just changes.

Turns, slowly and slowly,

So that the scales imbalance and life is always a headache.

Headaches make people do things,

They make them throw up and fall down from high places and trip from chairs and have no more stomach for food

And they must eat all sorts of unpleasant things to make themselves feel better.

It doesn’t always work.

At the end of the day they always, always go.

They’re framed, too.

All my friends went on trial,

Charged with irresponsibility and lack of coordination. (And cooperation.)

But they weren’t the murderers on this crime scene,

Because the men ignored the needles sticking out of their skulls.

I’d have thought it would be quite obvious,

But it is apparently a bit well-hidden,

So I thought I might bring it to your attention.

They are struggling with festered artistry,

And it explodes out of them, whether you like it or not.

The true perpetrators walk unscathed,

And they are everywhere.

We all have held stones in our hands, ma’am, and we’ve all thrown them,

But a few have held the axes,

And a few have led them to the stocks in the first place.

Strike the killing blow or make it begin.

How do I know, you say, that they will die?

It’s happened before.

They ate too much and their hearts gave out.

And it’s almost happening now.

Why, just last summer a friend of mine tried to work her heart out of her chest it hurt so much.

Another of my friends thought to write on paper with a pen but she could also have done it on her skin with a knife.

We’ve been force-feeding them our love and gratitude but it’s not working much anymore, ma’am,

The black stuff in the bottles goes in so very fast.

Ma’am, all my friends’ lives are in danger.

I make you this plea because I figure

They are all good people, and they are very young.

They deserve to live a little longer,

To know what the world is like when you have a good grip on your own needle,

When you can’t control when it goes in but you can pull it out.

Life is sunnier that way.

And it’s not always;

But ma’am this is murder and we have all gotten death threats,

I think we deserve a little band-aid.