Every writer should go to an asylum –
she said we all are very sad, the conscious in my head
and she said it in whispers we painted blue
a numbing bed between my legs
two fingers soothing the flood in my throat
and the whites of the bathroom floor, now whites in my sick walls.
Every writer should feel the pain of existing.
I continue a conversation with my head:
we vomit the words of heavenly death and I
I cease to worry over a party invitation-
invite me to your funeral and I will have a thousand feelings
to write about,
and I will write them all for you.
My broken thumb stopped stubbing your apple,
let’s speak to your tears instead.
And every time you are sad,
I have a plethora in my pens.
With every man who fails to love you
comes the release of a romantic epidemic;
the birth of a recovering patient.
Send me to an asylum
and let me feed off the words of the insane
give me home in your destruction,
I am desperate, I am reeling
I couldn’t find any in my friends.
She sits and writes and he says she is sad
“her life is sad. her friends are sad. how very sad.”
She tells him to fuck off,
but they are fucking in her bed again.
Take me to an asylum
and I will write a memoir of my happiest time.
Walls and walls of unfurnished feelings
silly little cigarettes in her hand, my conscious feels oppressed.
Scapegoat the bottle of Xanax to a mild headache
and welcome, your room mate, Kate-
a girlfriend for your fiends, let’s match your cycles
red, red, and green-
She said they won’t treat you like a person
here, in this mental institution,
joy! I’ve never been treated like one my entire life.