stumbling into the main hall
in my stained hospital gown,
my feet covered by those socks
with the grips, my ******* swollen

beyond measure, rock hard for lack
of expression. Eyes that saw me
but didn't question me. My growing
panic when I missed turning in

yet another food option card. Three
missed meals when my body needed
the nourishment more than ever.

The pills they prescribed to placate.
The kindly old man, his lip tremors
and teeth stained yellow, who freely
extended his friendship, who called me comrade. My exhaustion,

my deprivation of sleep and food. Of my right mind. The way I laid my head on the lunch table, asking my new friend if he could watch over me

as I slept, nightmares and demons
finally staved for some indeterminate
amount of time. How everyone there
let me call my mom over and over again, on the precious shared

hall phone. The way I was starved, thinking I would die there. The little card I drew, artwork at its finest, not knowing what reality was anymore.

How I recalled my own father being in a similar mental institution after his own suicide attempt. How he was saved. How I was.