ROOM 139, Logan February

Room 139
by Logan February

The hornets are lazy and fat 
outside my window; 
in the distance, the horizon is sunless 
and blank as virgin paper. 

The hellhounds here have dirty paws 
and teeth that beg for staining. 

I know a secret way – 
through the hanging gardens 
where the ghosts are angry eternally. 
They tied them nooses and asked them to be 
but they were never bright enough anyway. 
Keep your head down, do it, 
or you will dance with corpses, 
and the smell of rot brings me nausea. 

The walls are soft, the floor, I am in a cloud 
(I always wondered if I was angelic) 
and everyone here has a voice 
as gentle as ground glass, 
saying I am good, I am good, I am. Good. 

I came here to be clean, 
but the taps run with sludge and rust—
where will I go next, tell me. 

Light-bulb, special, soft, flicker, burn 
out, out, out, I do not belong here. 
I am swaying again, like a savage, 
and the syringes are coming for me. 

What I am trying to say is: 
I need you to promise that 
when they put me in a madhouse, 
you will always bring me wine, 
so they will never be able 
to make me sane. 
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About barkingsycamores 183 Articles
Barking Sycamores is a literary journal entirely edited and operated by queer neurodivergent people of color. We publish poetry, artwork, short fiction (beginning with Issue 3), creative nonfiction (beginning with Issue 8), and hybrid genre work (beginning with Issue 9) by emerging and established neurodivergent writers as well as essays on neurodiversity and literature and book reviews (beginning with Issue 10).

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