Psych Ward

0

Psych WardPsych

One of us is plucking agitated centipedes out of ears, one has made pasta with red sauce from the roots of her bloody hair, one walks the room in flat circles saying, “I am dead.  I am dead.  I am—” though we can’t hear the words because his mouth is sewn shut with barbed wire.

Out the grated window is the clothesline where our measly souls hang and sway next to all our slaughtered pets, next to a kite tail of mangled tongues.

Our uniforms match, same see-through shirts made of stripped off skin.  When the door clatters open, the two head Shrinks float in together, though it’s Mom who says, “Time for dinner.”

 

Ward

There’s a person in this cell block that might not be a person after all, so we are getting thinner but smarter, like strands of wise crimson string.

We are trying to change the combination locks in our eyes, stuff our keyhole eardrums with dry ice or garlic, bury our voice boxes in the neighbor’s non-complicit backyard.

But there are reasons the impossible is impossible, reasons some jackals want more than a paternal kiss from you in the wide shaking dark, a few hours after they’d made you dinner, having asked, “How was it?”


Photo used under CC.




Giving = Loving. We are able to bring you content such as this through the generous support of readers like yourself. Please help us deliver words to readers. Become a regular Patreon Subscriber today. Thank you!
Share.

About Author

blank

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and the author of four books, most recently the story collection, THIS IS WHY I NEED YOU, out now from Ravenna Books. You can also find more of his writing at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: