Prison for the insane

 

White walls close us in.

Locks on every door.

There’s no way out, essentially, imprisoned.

The nice woman with the red hair, my roommate, wails.

I see her body slump to the floor as a nine-inch needle embeds into her arm.

A sea of men and women in white drag her away.

I don’t know where they’re taking her.

She’s gone for two nights.

No one talks about it.

We just play board games and watch the TV encased in a 5-inch layer of glass.

But that didn’t last for long.

Some girl with stitched up wrist swallowed the batteries from the TV remote.

Our privileges were revoked.

I hate everything about being there.

The medication, doctors, bedtime, sheets rough as bark.

But one day, a nurse in rotation, graced me.

Eugene, she’s sweet on me –

Calls me sugar, capping off the r.

Flashes her pearlescent smile at me when I drag by her.

She didn’t communicate with the doctors how often I stayed in my room.

I lied when they asked me if I was washed with gloom.

But I think she knew.

She liked me, but shared my same hopes –

That I would go home.

With no TV and a pitiful selection of readings,

I decided to write in my room.

The paper bags used as trash cans, sealed light sockets and camera infested rooms,

Mocked me.

Though, I didn’t let the ridicule stop me.

There was always a nervous tension stagnate in the air.

Mumbles and awkward movements.

Everybody wanted to talk about their troubles to one another,

But all so used to being misunderstood that nobody bothered.

Though we didn’t speak on our issues,

We all held true that we were outcasts of society.

We bonded in this notion, making our trip to the psyc ward a little less an imprisonment,

But a visit with family.

Not a home, nor a prison

A place of comfort.