GUIDED MISSILE

To hold my head still, a mask is moulded
To replicate the contours of my face.
It sits rigid against my skin, bolted
To the table, preventing any trace

Of movement. I am suffocating, trapped,
Buried alive, waiting for them to train
Their weapons on the noughts and crosses mapped
Precisely over the parts of my brain

They need to target. I picture the ray
On its trajectory through skin and blood
And skull and dura, skewering each grey
Cell along the way. My own private Scud.

Bull's eye. A direct hit. A perfect score.
My brain's become a casualty of war.