Psych Ward

My uniform is not an orange jumpsuit. It's sweatpants and a hoodie stripped of their strings, but full of colour and pills from my mother's dryer.

I am stripped of those-- I am also stripped of my laces, necklace and bracelets. I am unflinching, the youthful fat in my cheeks sway with every rough shove of the night police officer, tired and assigned to me like a chore.

I am also stripped of my youthful washer and dryer scent, as it's overwhelmed by antiseptic and rough hands.

I swallow my bile. I bite back my spite.

I do not deserve to be forced into a wheelchair, when I am young with working limbs.

I do not deserve to be painted green and brown from the abandoned hall I am wheeled down.

No one speaks to me as they push me along. The only reassurance I am okay is my conscious, nervously glancing at my surroundings.

The officers say nothing as they load me onto my edgeless cot.

I awake an hour later to a woman stealing my blood. Not taking. That would be kind, and inquisitive. A question, perhaps, if she could. She drew it while I slept, and yelled at me for waking because I tensed and slowed the stream of blood.

She offers me a melatonin pill that I cant swallow without water. My tears are enough to pool around my lips and wet the throat.