The Poem Where She Absconds From The Psych Ward

sandals weep across 

gravel. the wind has an iron 

flavour. seventeen & sold 

to madness, wrapped 

in a wedding gown 

from the next life, the betrothed

races, kicking off what hinders,

soles mauled by roughage.

security guards, a crash-tackle

(Vin Diesel would be proud).

ferrous footprints left to crisp

in the sun.

betrothed taken to her chambers.

golden hour stains the concrete, 

bitterly nibbles gnawed fingernails

& dusts the ground with cut keratin–

a graveyard of crescents gaze

up from between bodies who mirror

one other’s deaths. 

a hoard of children, a house of saints

(who can tell the two apart?).

scuffed fingertips claw at the gaps

between bricks, leaving spots

of life to die on terracotta.

duress blares, little hands fumble,

bodies drop, small bodies, not yet full grown

(but Jesus did say to be like little children).

privilege is a privilege;

laceless shoes flip & flop. 

weekends are bland.

easier to hide knuckles cut on teeth…

weekends are understaffed.

weekends are when mania is most contagious.

messages from the inside are speculative

& speculation spreads rumours like her legs

(she takes pleasure in gossip, you see).

in the end, if you really want to know:

• Redbull doesn’t give you wings (at least not like the Mental Health Act does)

• the end of the world is closer than you think (mine ended once already)

• if you want to be a saint, you must first become a child (yes, saints too tell lies)