In The Mental Ward

I wrote this last year. I recently submitted it to a writer's forum and someone said it reminded them of Sylvia Plath. Best. Compliment. Ever.

IN THE MENTAL WARD

The wet tree outside my window
says
spring is coming
I can smell the soggy bark
though the glass
the mold creeps through
where the draft comes through
my bed is made
I am waiting for breakfast

The boy across the hallway speaks
murmurs grunts
his fat sticky fingers come
under the doorway
into my vocal tubes

an ant on the floor
among the sterile, multi-colored
threads of the carpet
looks up at
my hair and clothes