maybe it's just something about moms who smoke, maybe their lungs are just too clogged to say I love you. the aroma of smoke stained walls and stale furniture smelt just like home to me but unlike the stickers on the wall, love is not found here. people tell you it won't be like this forever but when you try to sleep it off hours feel like years when all of the mattresses in your house smell of rotting lungs. she's taught me what it was like to feel like the tree in the forest. hospitals have become the only home my mother actually welcomed me to, sticky socks and open backed dresses, is this really what you call stable? backwards isn't your firstborn direction but with a family like mine you would see me go backwards and think it was magnificent. they say you can get out in two weeks but mentally you never really leave. I used to joke and say that I loved it here, I showed you how much of a joke it was when the second day after I got out I was writing prescriptions for myself again. when I arrived they took a photo with the flash on and I told them to title it "a breathing irony"  they asked me what my real name was and I told them "vacant baggage" or just Vannah for close friends.
restraints feel so right when you can't even trust yourself. endless hours on a cold ***** floor, this feels like home.
the same questions, the same answers three times a day
no I'm not a harm to myself
no I'm not a harm to others
I'm calm cool and collected
no I don't want to go home
nobody seems to understand that having the emergency brake on is a good thing.
I slowly realized that the girl inside of the plastic mirror is only who my mother wanted me to be.
Fast forward and it's a girl, I'm due in 4 months, I pick up my mothers legacy and light.