in psych wards, they take your belt, shoelaces
anything you could use to hurt yourself
when I’m there, I fear the world will kill me
so, I give them my belt, tell ’em to take good care of it
& I talk to others there
& I feel damaged & I identify with compatriots –
ancient, white-haired women who look like washerwomen of Celtic myth, who start fights & cackle & perhaps know they’ll never leave –
heavy-set bald men who bemoan the fact we can put people on the moon but can’t cure mental illness –
muscular young men with anger in their eyes, who quickly develop psych ward romances & take every chance to show they hate the world for what it’s done to them –
they follow me when I leave,
& I collect my belt, step into bright worlds &
pretend I wasn’t here
a secret I keep to myself
that perhaps the wiring in my brain is faulty
producing highs & lows like a wooden rollercoaster
in a cheap carnival
& I take my meds, monitor symptoms
know after years of this routine that
stability is the goal I strive for
not happiness or dogmatic bullshit about enlightenment
that morally purist & overcaffeinated 12-stepping zealots
pontificate about in moldy church basements
somewhere between heaven and hell
