HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA

"Excuse me, sir?"

"No, time." I say, quickly, sniffing the air for missing truffles. "I'm busy."

"Sir, I am a police officer." The disjointed voice says. Jangly. That's how I would describe it.

"And what?" I ask scornfully. "Ya' eating a donut too?" I look him up and down, clicking my tongue like sonar. "Actually a donut would be nice, can I have one?"

"We don't perpetuate that stereotype at the precinct." The narc says, chompin' on a pink one with sprinkles.

I snatch it from his hand and lick it obsessively, then shove it up my ass, ready to answer more questions.

"Ew." The man says, then shakes his head. "You were speeding."

"What? You're not going to ask about the straitjacket?" I mutter.

"Um. You're not wearing a straitjacket. Should you be?"

I glance down at my hands which are frantically digging in the glovebox. "Oh. Right."

"License and registration, please." The man demands. "And we're going to need to do a drug test on you."

"What is this?" I scoff. "Canada? You can't just ask stuff like that from me. Land of the free, homeslice." I glance him up and down, pulling my sunglasses down. "You can't force me to do anything. Fourteenth Amendment, baby."

"This is Australia, mate." The officer says. "And the fourteenth amendment allows all people born or naturalized in the USA to become citizens."

"So now you're going to patronize me because I didn't go to college?"

"Sir, I need your license and registration immediately."

"Sir?" I echo. "So now you're assuming my gender?" I grip my forehead to ward off the headache. "Misogynistic much?"

"Sir?" The officer clears his throat. "Um... ma'am?"

"No, I'm male." I say. "I just didn't like that you didn't ask."

"Do I need to take you down to the station?"

"I wouldn't mind if you took me down to your station." I smile slyly.

The officer plants his palm in his forehead. "Alright, you're coming with me."

"Score!" I hold out my hands to be cuffed.

The man sighs. "Get over here."

"Please, officer. I know," I gesture to myself. "Who wouldn't want to? But you can take me home."

The officer sighs. "And where is home?"

"Whoa!" I gasp. "You're tryna take me back home?" I snicker. "Redweed asylum."

"As in insane asylum?" The man asks.

I look away, biting my lip. "That's not very nice."

Asylum, meaning both refuge and holding cell,

as I lumber further and further from

The point in time wherein I had hospitalization, gripping socks to floors.

The thought of escape, of touching ground somewhere new

Somewhere else, somewhere he can never touch me again

Wherein prison would welcome him if he tried, only he can’t.

Nobody will rescue a monster, not that they, those, exist.

Only I’m reliant and terrified and pathetic and humbled and hopeless

And the memories live until recidivism occurs and then there’s more and escape

Escape seems impossible, seems asylum-worthy in that insanity is what it would mean

What it would be, what I would be were I to try.

So instead I write and write and write, vomiting words

as though they can save me

Because therapy only saved me as a teenager,

in my twenties it simply turned me inside out

Turned me into a hollow boned bird, an exoskeleton molt of touches, of memories,

of a home I will only own when they die and

I’m home, not an asylum seeker, just a monstrosity seeking attention

For no real reason, no real danger exists, even if

If I ache for somewhere new to rest, the distress flares still signal

Nobody will save me. I must save myself, only that seems like a task

For someone capable, not a typewriting bird pecking at keys.

Not a novel concept seeking somewhere to grow, soil to sink roots into.

Certainly not a skeleton seeking somewhere

anywhere the citizens don’t suck the marrow from bones.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand then pull out my earpods. Saint-Saens is silent now.

I have to get out of here. I don't belong here. There is no cocktail of medications, no amount of therapy with Doctor Phillips or meditation or prayer or passage of time that will mold me into someone who fits. I know what I know and I don’t want to unknow it. It is beauty and light and more lovely than anything I've ever known here.

Ellie is right. She, all of them, will take the pills, spout the proper words or phrases and leave, returning to the world beyond these walls where they will make an effort to soften their edges and make a life they can live with. Some will succeed. Some will wear out a path to these doors.

And some will slip softly into the mist.

It's early yet so I put on my flip flops and head for the garden. There are no guards, or bars or high walls or electic fences here. There is no need. We have no where to go, to be, that does not lead right back to bloodied wrists, stomach pumping, or nighttime oblivion resulting from self-medication or that ordered by the staff psychiatrists.

More importantly, we are miles away from anything that is not trees and rocks, grass and sky. A selling point: Quiet serenity to subdue a turbulent mind.

I walk into the forest as night begins to fall and the first stars peek between the leaves. I look up and smile. I can almost hear their music. Feel it's hum beneath my skin.

I walk into the darkness but I have not felt so light since before. I don’t look back. I do not need this place that cannot see or hear or understand my being.

I am going home.

I've been trapped in this place for what feels like an eternity. The walls are a dull gray, the floors are cold and unforgiving, and the air is thick with the scent of despair. I've lost count of the days, the weeks, the months. Time has no meaning here. The halls are lined with doors, each one leading to a different cell, a different prisoner. I've seen some of them, heard their whispers and their screams. We're all trapped here, together, yet alone.

The guards patrol the halls, their footsteps echoing off the walls. They're always watching, always waiting. I've tried to escape before, but they're too strong, too vigilant. They always catch me, always drag me back. But it's not just the guards that keep me trapped. It's the voices in my head, the constant chatter of self-doubt and fear. "You're not good enough," they whisper. "You'll never make it." The voices are relentless, echoing off the walls of my mind.

And then there are the visitors. My family comes to see me, bearing gifts and false smiles. "Be a good girl," they say. But their words are laced with poison, weighing me down with expectations and responsibilities.

And then, there's the thought of returning to a different prison after getting out of this one. "Learn this, memorize that," the teachers there drone. But their words are hollow, devoid of meaning or passion. They're just trying to mold me into something I won't be.

Adolescence is a cruel joke, a never-ending cycle of confusion and uncertainty. My body is changing, my emotions are raw, and my mind is a jumbled mess. I'm lost, alone, and adrift.

But I won't give up. I won't stop trying. I have to escape, no matter what it takes.

I've been watching the guards, studying their routines. I know when they change shifts, when they take their breaks. I know the layout of the asylum, every door, every hallway. I've been waiting for the perfect moment to make my move. It comes on a Friday, after lunchtime. The guards are distracted, busy with returning us to our cells. I see my chance and I take it.

As he turns, forgetting to lock, I slip out of my cell, into the hallway. I move quickly, quietly, trying not to draw attention to myself. I make my way to the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest. As I climb, I hear the guards shouting behind me. They're closing in, but I won't stop. I keep moving, my feet pounding the stairs. I reach the top floor, the administrative offices. I know there's a door here, a door that leads outside. I've seen the guards use it, but I've never been able to get close.

I burst through the door, into the bright sunlight. I feel a rush of freedom, of exhilaration. I've made it, I've escaped.

But as I look around, I realize something's off. The buildings, the streets, they're all familiar. And then it hits me - I'm standing in front of my own house.

The asylum, it wasn't a physical place. It was my own mind, my own thoughts. I've been trapped in my own head, and I just escaped. I take a deep breath, feeling a sense of wonder, of awe. I'm free, and it's the weekend!

The question posed is, “Why don’t you escape the asylum” That’s the wrong question to ask. It should be, “Why don’t you want to escape the asylum?” This inquiry will result in a fuller, more honest response.

First, one person’s asylum is another person’s Club Med, minus the turndown service and all-you-can-eat buffet. As the sole proprietor who built this asylum, without a background in construction or a doctorate of psychiatry I might add, it’s of my own design. Since the beginning, I’ve overseen the broad spectrum of daily operations. Just me, no help from mid-level management or frontline support staff. I’m the judge, jury and intake coordinator.

Second, how can I escape when the doors I crafted and so lovingly installed are padlocked on the inside and outside. This ensures that those housed here, including me, cannot leave. Keeps us sequestered from society. And the industrial-grade bolt cutters stored in the maintenance shed are inferior to the titanium security bars covering the windows. That’s intentional. Those dwelling here should not mingle with the general population.

Third, the supposed crazy exhibited is my normal. Others may view this confinement as punishment, but it’s not. It’s what I know. Yes, escaping from here would “free” me from this institution, but where would I go then? I’d inevitably be captured and forced into a different place. There, I’d be stripped of my seniority and control. Or worse. And what about those left behind? What fate would befall them? Without proper leadership, anarchy assumes power. Infrastructure deteriorates. I don’t want to subject those I’ve forsaken to this uncertainty. We’ve been through too much together. It wouldn’t be fair or just.

Fourth, over time I’ve developed coping strategies for dealing with all who I’ve let into my asylum. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I prevent outside forces from entering which would corrupt the balance between the inner workings and those residing here. While what’s happening in the confines offers me perspective. Looking around is a constant reminder that it could be worse. Better the devil you know.

And most importantly, this is my sanctum. I want no part of the depravity performed by others on the outside. Granted, some folks can amaze me with their feats of kindness. But those moments are few and far between compared to the multitude of acts that gnaw at the sinew of society’s moral skeleton. The pointless inhumanity shocks me.

Leaving here means direct exposure to that, increasing the odds I’ll be victimized. I am confident my self-preservation skills would carry me through a zombie apocalypse unscathed. Less sure of my survival chances to withstand protracted exposure to the madness displayed by the public.

I’ve grown accustomed to the neurosis I’ve generated. I’m okay with it. If I’m introspective, I could even banish the troublesome aspects and learn from them. That’s a potential worth sticking around for. So, I won’t escape this domicile because living here is more rational to me than living in the supposed “sane” world.

they institutionalized me

because i was a long, hard

carrot

from china

who killed a man who said

"lucy's a carrot top"

i screamed

"fuck you man!

i am a carrot

see my green top"

hitting him so hard

i nearly cracked

and they put me away

but i pierced the floor

i pierced the ground

growing down down

until reaching the

indian ocean

i thought

in fact iowa

my tendrils poking through

the pig shit

pulling myself up

little by little

until i emerged

covered in shit

but still long, hard

and twisted:

the carrot from china

and when the pigs attacked

i killed them too

1/7/2025

I twist and turn

stretching for a desire that I don’t know how to verbalize

I crack my spine

and leave crescent moon indents in the skin alongside my ribs

my arms hug my body

with no straightjacket to keep them there

because freedom is an unfamiliar taste when you’ve been fed routine

and it stings the tongue in the same way that spice does

it leaves you wanting more

but the escape is mine

and I will claim that pain infinitely

He left me in a puddle there-

he said, "This is the one safe place for you.

Come, you will not be forsaken."

But lies can live anywhere one plants them.

He planted many

and they flowered into beautiful promises

that will never be.

So that asylum he spoke of,

that safe place for me to land and live.

was a garden of gorgeous colors that wilt

under the slightest built of scrutiny.

I wish to go back to then.

Let me find asylum,

in something more than just empty eyes and hollow words.

Anyone, someone, please- take me home.