Continuum of Care
Pen clicks mark time in a unit where no one gets to leave. This purgatory; sins never really purged, impossible. No sin for a sick mind can heal with glassed ice, crunch munch in their cheeks, squirrelling away water for another sunlight drought, trying to remember what it felt like to walk barefoot on glossy grass. I ask: How long have you been here? She says: Back when I had a tan.