Damp, heavy sheets
twisted around my legs,
like cold night sweats,
but there was no nightmare.
It was just the rain,
that had beat against the walls and roof and windows all week long
finally getting in.
That night,
that night of no nightmares,
I met another patient.
His eye looked at me,
then through me.
And through the walls
and through the rain
through the very fabric of reality itself.
They alighted on another world.

Maybe it was a better world,
with gentle rain that never broke through walls.
And bright greens and oranges.
A world where fairies serve ambrosia
with diamond studded wings.
And centaurs carry crystal cups
filled from the fountain of youth.

I'm jealous of his Neverland.
Jealous that he can escape
while I wake up with drenched sheets
once more clinging to my legs.

Right off the bat, I want to remind you that I'm not sorry.
That being said.
Sometimes, I empathize with
Lady Macbeth
and her perpetually stained hands.
More often, I sympathize with
Pontius Pilate
and his hands that never got *****.

Have you ever cut yourself
slicing chicken, shaving legs?
You put your finger in your mouth,
so you don't get blood on the dinner,
and **** life.
Slightly salty, slightly sour.
And red, so, so red.
Red like roses
        like leaves in fall
        like firetrucks
        like a slinky dress
        like blood.
So red you can taste it.
Have you ever cut someone else?
It's just like chicken really.
Turns out, other people bleed
just as salty, sour,
and even more red.

One of the nurses was humming a song today.
I had forgotten about music.
I think it was a wedding march.
She was wearing a ring too.
I had forgotten about love.

They let me out of my room today.
First time.
Must be for good behavior or something.
I walked down the hall
on my own two feet,
a matched set of burly male nurses
shadowing me
in case I decided to jump another patient
                                              or myself
                                              or them
                                              or something.
But I didn't even see anyone else.
And I sat in another room,
bigger, but just as empty of color.

Now one introduces themselves around here,
no one wears name tags or anything.
So I've decided to give all my nurses names.
The biggest one, with smooth, chocolate skin and shiny, pearl teeth,
he's Langston.
The next biggest, so similar they could be twins
except for his eating, his name is Byron.
The motherly woman who brings my pills
with a smile everyday is Maya.
And the skinny blonde is Emily.
The only other person I see is the night guard.
His name is Robert.
Oh , and me,
no one ever uses my name either.
I think I've forgotten what it really is,
so I make up a new one everyday.
Theodore, William, Walt, Pablo,
Edgar on my morbid days
and Shell on my silly ones.
A new day,  a new name.
A new identity.
Sometimes, I can almost forget why I'm here.

The water here tastes funny.
The food does too,
but mostly just the water bothers me.
It tastes unnatural and fake,
like it's been inside too long.
I never really feel clean after a shower here.
And the water never really warms up.
It trickles our of the spout,
like a waterfall during a drought,
falling obligatorily,
but not enthusiastically.
I miss the rain,
the warm showers of spring,
crashing thunderstorms of summer,
chilly drizzle of fall,
even the icy sleet of winter.
I miss God's tears,
falling from the heavens
and baptizing me
again and again.
In the rain,
I could really feel clean
                                 free
                                 forgiven.
But not here.
The showers here barely work,
the water never gets warm,
and it tastes funny anyway.

Sometimes I dream of that night.
I think if it wasn't summer, everything would have been different.
But it was just so hot.
In my dreams,
the world is an oven.
I'm baking, roasting, broiling.
It was 108 degrees that day,
80% humidity.
Someone was once acquitted on the ******* defense.
Isn't the heat defense just as good?
If it wasn't so hot,
I wouldn't have done it.
But it was.
And I did.
And secret number two,
I'm not sorry.

They said I was mad.
Sick in the head.
It was the illness that made me do it.
And how could anyone doubt I was crazy,
after that performance in the courtroom.
But I'll tell you a secret.
I'm not crazy.
I did it because I wanted to.
I suppose it's good, that
they said I was mad.
Because now I'm stuck in this
sterile, white room
this box of pills and soft, blunt objects.
Clinical and devoid of color
                                         emotion
                                         life.
I can feel it draining away my sanity,
this empty life with quiet nurses and paper slippers.
If I wasn't crazy before they admitted me,
I will be if they ever let me out.
But I suppose it's not that bad.
I suppose it's better than prison.
I suppose.

I sat,
hands folded in my lap,
legs crossed,
like a good girl would.
I sat,
head ducked demurely,
contrite expression in place,
like a Catholic to confession.
Then the judge,
or priest,
or God
banged his gavel,
frightening the silence away.
I glanced up
and met his eye.
His scowl faltered
only for a moment.
Then his voice rang clear,
"Guilty."
And silence rushed back into the room.
The shocked hush
resounded in my ears
like the boom of thunder
              scream of a banshee
              wail of a mourner.
It rang and rang,
echoing, amplifying, echoing.
I couldn't take the deafening,
                                 clamoring
                                                   silence.
I sat,
head tipped back,
arms spread wide,
like Jesus on the cross.
I sat,
hysteric laughter spilling out,
rocking back and forth,
like a madman in the street.