Per 
I know your face, but not your name.
Who are you again?
Something beginning with J. Was it Jennifer? Jack? Joseph? Jane?
None of them are right.
White walls, white floor, white roof.
White, like paint. They are the painters, and you are the canvas.
But if they are the painters, who do they paint for? Unless they are artists.
They can't be enjoying this. Can they?
They come in everyday, to paint.
Why do they paint? I haven't done anything wrong. I have been good so far.
Every day, they come in. They never knock, only enter. They come to paint. Paint my life away.
I haven't done anything wrong, so why do they paint?
I know your face, but not what you've done.
This has to be a punishment, what else can it be?
White walls, white floor, white roof.
All I see in the room is white.
The room isn't white, there's light in my eyes.
The world isn't dark, I am merely blind.
If I didn't do anything wrong, then you must've. But they didn't catch you did they? So they punish me. Why?
Why am I glad you escaped?
You aren't the canvas, their brushes have turned on me.
Thoughts of you slip by like eels in a lake. I keep finding more, but they slide out of my hands every time.
Their painters are doctors, and their brushes: needles.
I am drowning in paint, it is all I see.
They mutter amongst themselves, constant chittering in my ears, as time blurs and blends like a painting plunged in water.
Something beginning with J… Or was it an S?
I don't know anymore.
They ask me to remember you. Every day they make me remember, until I can't anymore.
I've learnt not to remember. When I say I remember, they start the painting all over again.
I've been here days. It feels like months. Or was it months that felt like days?
I don't remember.
In the night, I always wake with your name on my tongue. But when I desperately reach for it: gone.
Then I cry myself back to sleep.
They say they are helping me, to get rid of you. But when I say, 'I don't want you gone', they pick up their brushes, and paint again.
I think I might have once been a painter, now I am the painted. They say I painted for fun, that no one relished it quite like I. But painting, they say, is not meant to be fun. But I laughed, anyway.
Painting and painting my mind away. White as a brand new canvas.
Brushing and blending my self away. Clean as a hospital room.
But as they paint on the last day, I laugh and laugh the time away.
Because as long as they are painting me…
They can't. Paint. You.
