i think about the hospital a lot
the crisp white sheets
the shiny piece of tin on the wall
the ***** trio of couches

these images are super glued to my eyes
it’s almost as if i wish i was still there
but that would mean, of course,
that i am still sick – or at least what they say sick is

the scent of hospital air lingers on my sweatshirt
you know, the one i wear everyday
the one that hides my imperfections
and my scars

my sweatshirt has been washed
smothered with detergent
but all i smell is the mental ward
the brain senses what the brain wants

maybe i want to be back there
with the others who, for those seven days, i considered my family
perhaps it’s because i felt safe
like it was okay to be the way i am

i want to be back there
in the isolation of a sad, protected world
either i’m getting sick again
or i was never cured