Sta.sh
you are a moan that
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
on me,
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
and i hear someone wail
in the darkness, as godforsaken
as the howl of a dog who has discovered
its owner dead.
i vomit and it comes out black
as ink.
my heart is the ugliest part
of me, but no one will ever see...
and these walls,
oh sometimes these walls scream so loud.
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I've never been to a purely psychiatric hospital, but I remember what the psych ward of a regular hospital was like. It wasn't friendly, really...tense and smiling, but not really friendly.
no, it wasn't a very nice place... but i did make some good friends there