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 chandeliers, 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.