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hospital room
March 18, 2015
the mirror distorted my image
like the ones they have in a funhouse
made of metal instead of glass
I can’t quite make out the bags under my eyes
or the runny mascara I never bothered to wipe away
and as I sit on the plastic bed
wrapped in cotton sheets
the only sounds are the old radiator rattling
and the little boy two rooms over
screaming.
© Tiana D., Monument, CO
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I wrote this poem the night I arrived in an adolescent psychiatric ward. It was a difficult transition to make and my writing was really what got me through it.