Creamsicle.

Originally written 12.28.2012. Experience in the mental hospital.

I sat quietly at the table, feeling claustrophobic in the large room, as the walls of people, of their judging eyes and their complicated intentions, closed in on me. As the force crushed my shoulders, guilt and shame each wrapped a hand around my neck, cutting off my supply of air and making the room a blurry mess of watercolors. The oranges bled into the off-whites forming a creamsicle of confusion.

“Words are powerful,” she droned from a planet far, far away. She asked a question and a school of beiges and browns shot into the air, making my head spin even faster. As my vision fades from a Pollock painting to nothingness, I feel my skull crack, and my ghost of a personality slips out and fades into the nothing it always was.