Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Trying to Remember What I Use to Want to Forget

In a place where my bed smells like gasoline,
and my head's full of dreams,
the nurse gives me a glance
as I cry, "I want to go home."

She stands by me and says,
"I know"
as she kindly reminds me
that I'm not well enough
to be anywhere but where I am.

She offered nothing but a hug
to the pathetic patient I felt I was,
because not much makes you feel smaller
than missing your mind.

I sat on my hospital bed
with the window behind me,
I did a thing or two
I don't remember.

I begged for a bit of home
to help me sleep at night,
but anything anyone brings to me
will be lost among all the other patients.

A girl named Gloria is telling me
not to give up hope,
she convinces me that prayer
and going to groups will get me home.

She was a patient herself and offered a prayer for me,
which didn't mean much at the time,
since I didn't even understand where I was, or why I was there,
but somehow it sure means a lot to me now.

In the end, they sent me home early,
but only at the cost of more mental anguish,
and a longer stay at somewhere
that somehow seemed to fix me.