The spacing came out oddly on wattpad; it's supposed to be shaped like a pyramid. Sorry 'bout that.
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Our
Lunch
Is blue. We
Pretend to have
Appetites and happy
Thoughts, but all we, or
And least I, want to do is go
Back to those bolted-down beds
And sleep. For eternity. For the rest
Of my life. The trays are blue, too. The
Others have food they marked with a crayon
On flimsy paper menus with limited and often un-
Appealing options. Feels like being six years old at a
Restaurant. Marcel is sitting with us—Darla is in isolation
In her room, eating of a blue plastic tray with a nurse monitoring
Her—and making us report our food intake. Anyone who displays
The slightest problem with the awful hospital food is transferred to the
Eating disorder ward. My food is lukewarm and can't make up its mind be-
Tween having the texture of cardboard or peeled grapes coated with raw egg yolk.
My brain feels as if it’s wrapped in gauze. Want to just curl up and sleep, want to be
Able to turn my fuzzy mind off for just a few moments, want to escape. Wanna die now.
YOU ARE READING
Welcome to the Psych Ward
PoetryThis is a story. It is not fiction. It is not written to elicit sympathy, only to shed light upon this misunderstood topic. It is written poetry-style and is not exaggerated in any way.
