CW Suicide, Self Harm, Institutionalization

One day I’ll write about green walls and no shoelaces; 

I might even explain why the second Ambien is better than the first. 

I’ll label a flash ‘fiction’ when I write about the girl who hung herself in the bathroom  

while her roommate warded off the nurse. 

No one will believe we played ‘strip club’ and threw Monopoly money in the air for Jim’s birthday. 

I might include how we snorted pills every day while the nurses were busy with shift change. 

I could write a few pages on how I felt sorry for myself  

until I sat in group with a Spanish girl who was born without legs. 

If I was feeling bold, I could write a poem about how I wanted to fuck the night nurse 

but I didn’t because I knew he was already fucking my roommate. 

I’ll change names when I write about Blue Eyes cutting his wrists all up  

and how I laughed when he threw his mattress at the nurses. 

I’m not sure if I should mention how my short black hairs grew too long every where 

Or if when I got out, I went to Ave J and bought ten bars wrapped in cellophane. 

Some things I will probably leave out: 

How being at your bottom is the best feeling life can provide; 

How no one called me on the visitor line, but I never felt alone; and

How I wish I could go back and be myself again.