In the sterile belly of the clinic waiting

to be mothered by a marble-eyed psychiatrist,

I feel at home with the rest of Brooklyn’s loons.

We fill the room. A honky-tonk litany of manic-depressives,

washed up deities and fuck-ups. A song!

March gloats on outside in her spring furs, wearing

nothing but bright skin beneath. Clouds slur soundlessly.

I deserve perky florals, talking dreams, Roman kings.

A window large enough to leap through.

An encyclopedia of how. New colors.

I will not die, I will not die.

I look around. An entire room of cells weaving

in and out of one another.

All of us, choosing to look into the light even if it burns.

And it really does.

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