Day After Death

I wake up in an unfamiliar bed.
The sheets were paper thin.
There’s a needle in my hand, and a pounding in my head,
and a girl that I don’t know sitting at the end.
She looks at me trying to understand.
She says, “I’m sorry but I can’t leave, but you can always talk to me.”
But instead, I just wait, silently, for a familiar face,
a warm embrace, or just answers.
I try not to remember the night before,
though I know every moment that brought me to the floor.
So, I lean back, staring at the ceiling, wondering if they could get it any more white
and how long it would be until I was free.
‘Cause this was a mistake.
No, I didn’t mean to take that way out.
No, I didn’t mean to fall so hard.
Please believe me doctor. Believe me shrink.
Let me go home. Please have faith in me.
But he is angry, and persistent, much the men I know.
“You’re a threat to yourself,” he says,” No, you’re not allowed to go. “
So 3 days pass, and to another bed I’m strapped.
They throw me in the back of a cold ambulance.
“You are sick,” he says. “You need help.”
He argues. “72 hours will be enough to evaluate your state.”
The day after death is not a pretty one
But the three days that follow are worse
They lock you away from the roses and the fresh air and the blue sky
and your mother and your father.
Visiting hours are from 1 to 3 and I hope someone comes for me.