I ride the bus

from one town, to another.

Leaving behind

my mother

and her whispered lies

(these lies have grown inside me…

malignancies

that have become my truth)

Carrying everything I own

in a ripped green plastic bag…

(mostly clothes from the Hospital’s lost and found, but there is a special glass bong and my journal, as well)

The Hospital told me my insurance

would pay for one night in a motel, upon my release

from the psychiatric ward.

I am 18.

I decided to go back, and spend the night with  the man who beat me, instead.

But in the morning, I got on the bus out of town, away from his meth fueled love and violence.

Different town,

same voices in my head.

There is some comfort

in the insanity

and violent drama

of instability and chaos.

It is the known,

in a world of unknowns.