I am with the crazy ladies

who sit giggling in the loony bin.

We pick at our skin, our clothes;

we wiggle and yawn.

Heads wobble, jaws drop

tongues dart in and out

green canvas slippers cover

our toes.

Know this! I don't belong here.

Waiting for the pill cart

after eating prunes.

We shuffle back to our sterile

blue rooms.

I crawl on the floor.

My tiny ******* are sore.

I think a lot about death.

Someone shouts, "Get up, you're a mess."

I am the duchess of death.

They should beware.

I was a sleep-monger once.

Queen of a pill condition;

planting bombs in my brain.

They will transform me here.

Not before I get to the ****** Islands.

Where I will take off all my clothes

and paste prunes on my *******.

What news do you have about

the last twelve weeks?

Hurry up! I'll be leaving soon.