Marenaq 3.

Once, I was smoking a cigarette outside of my house. As I walked to the end of the driveway to throw the butt into the street, I was reminded of Alaska. I am sure many people in Alaska smoke cigarettes. Just to forget the cold; create a blanket of smoke with a lit fag to keep you warm. Not that I had ever been to Alaska. There was just snow everywhere and the houses hugged the street, huddled for warmth. The sun glared against the glossy surface of the snow banks. I’m not sure I have ever read of Alaska but there are movies—Snow Dogs, The Proposal, and Into the Wild. Except this time, in Providence, I see an Alaska with telephone poles carved by the scarred hands of assimilation.

The Crew debates whether The Walking Dead is better than Lost.
I have only watched the first seven episodes of Lost but I have seen every episode of The Walking Dead.. Already the answer is clear.
The Crew decides that the shows are not comparable and I shake my head in disagreement.

Psycho- A Poem

You wanna know what it’s like?
They made my bed.

I got up each morning at seven; check my vitals, piss, eat and go back into my room.
And voila, my bed was made. Like magic or clockwork or other forces that may exist.

In group therapy, nobody spoke until Nora whined so much that our
fragile glass brains would crack.
“I hate my body.”
“I need nicotine patches.”
“The voices tell me to hate you.”
“Psycho. Psycho. Psycho.”

There’s something about crawling into a perfectly made bed.
Pulling back tucked in blankets and sheets offered a sense of routine.
It almost convinces a person that they are normal.

Don’t believe in the bed. If you were normal you would make this bed yourself. Struggling to get the sheets straight, get the blankets smooth, fluff the pillows.

They encouraged us to create art.
Draw, paint, collages.
They scrutinized when I snipped out magazine pages with safety scissors.
They warned me to be careful, with the dull edges not sharp enough to cut paper, never mind my skin.

If you were normal, the blankets, the sheets, the paper bags they give you to keep your belongings in would not be so fucking white.
White is natural. Pure. Hospital sickly.
They want you to be clean.

No.

If you were normal you’d be home with your blue bedding, your yellow towels, beige walls.
If you were normal, the only things you’d put in paper bags are groceries and old newspapers.
Not your toothbrush and clothes and hairbrush.

Family meetings were dreaded by all.
All of us had parental issues.
My father handed me a bible. I cried. Dr. Tarnoff asked if I wanted him to leave.
Julia was the only one who looked forward to seeing her mother.

If you were normal you’d be in school.
You’d be with friends. You’d have a job. Your parents wouldn’t have restricted visiting hours you’d be able to see your younger siblings. You’d be able to use a phone when you want, a computer, a pair of fucking scissors.
You’d be able to wear jewelry. To smile. To hug the people you like, to flirt, to high five your peers.

But we can’t get involved with the world. Can’t use or be or touch.
You and I…we’re just Psycho…
Psycho. Psycho.

Sometimes I'm just too scared to speak up. I hate myself for it.