Turning 17 In The Psych Ward

depression is a jinxed sentence first cousin.

sixteen elephant's living 3 weeks

to a year

in the room of the trauma unit

at that hospital overlooking the city.

i made friends with that boy

sporting a pink scar on his adams apple and

a girl with bleach breath.

three nurses at all times,

one psychiatrist

one physician

one therapist

six attempts at medication and

one tall man in the corner

with a syringe

in case your hands get too close

to your throat.

dull crayons to pass the time,

but most of the pages stayed blank

and the red crayons kept disappearing onto wrists and

walls and milk is thrown

against the plexiglass fishbowl

that the nurses stand behind,

eating salads and diet coke for lunch

while on my side of the bowl,

drowned kids float to the surface

a girl who likes reggae

and clouds that look like shapes

refuses dinner

for the seventh night in a row and

dead eyes stare at hospital feet,

because they took our shoes,

gave us socks that are safe

for kids like us

where a boy who never stops

drawing calenders

hides a plastic fork

he stole from the cafeteria in;

broken and shivved,

protection against the shadows

dancing along the concrete walls.

but no one tells the nurses,

and i think it was because

we all quietly prayed that we might become his next shadow,

i quietly prayed to become a shadow.