This is the final version after workshop
The nurses threaten it,
pointing to the heavy steel door with massive sliding lock.
I go to meet it, as the other mental patients
cower and contain what is putting me there.
The tan door opens silently, the room is unknown,
the floor is odd, neither liquid, nor solid.
Bare feet exploring the wavy cold
green bus seats from my childhood.
Darkness comes as the door closes,
I scream my hello to the Green Room.
All introductions are absorbed, ears never hearing,
My hands pound the same vertical floor in greeting.
Gasping for air to try again,
the scent of those sweaty bus seats in summer assault me.
Raking my teeth over the seams of the panels,
I no longer wonder what rubber tastes like.
Copyright © Jeremiah Stillings 2018