One sea green suitcase, one
celestial backpack. My markers
returned to me.

An apartment this time— two
to a room, three rooms per apartment.

Shifts of techs, 15 minutes.
To be monitored. Find the patient,
mark the room, move on.

Group therapy: one facilitator, fifteen
patients, assigned topic. Go!
You have one hour. You have four
tech checks.

One, two, three. Lunch.
Four, five. Dinner.
Six, seven. Sleep.
Clockwork clockwork

Kris across the room eating
Cheetos in a seroquel haze.

Books open my chest like
sharpened rib shears, my
clavicle swinging wide,
beautiful French doors.

Flecks of brain crusting
under my fingernails.

I’ve started eating
in a seroquel haze.
Crumbs in my bed.
Kris would be proud.

Panic and crying and EMDR
and writing and, wait for it—
collapse.

Off to the next chapter.
Just for stabilization.