Wax Wings
cw: hospitalization, psychosis
I am sucking the Orange Tootsie Pop, which I got as a prize for attending
Ms. Susan’s Anger Management Bingo. I hold it like a cigarette and suck
occasionally as I walk past the dayroom.
My blue scrubs are thin enough to show my nipples,
and I tell my roommate I am Lolita. We are walking laps,
laughing about how the posted schedule calls it
Morning Walking Group when really we are yo-yoing from
Locked door to—
Double-paned window to—
Locked door to—
Double-paned window to—
The outside is an empty parking lot, no one on the street;
the heat shimmers, makes the air seem slippery.
The outside is a tableau and I am in pieces, not figuratively, but literally
chopped to bits, driving around Brooklyn in an ice cream truck, but
I am keeping my thoughts locked up tight,
because I wouldn’t want them to think I am psychotic,
when what I really am is un-
dead. You, however, are dead-dead.
The motion of the ice cream truck makes me feel sick.
But we walk because in a place like this,
boredom is as sharp as a knife,
we rattle with discomfort,
too anxious to sit still.
And More
cw: mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation
Wire frames
Suicide attempt.
I turn to Romeo,
I bet he reads
David Foster Wallace.
Down the hall,
I shout: Hey! You read
David Foster Wallace?
Which of course you do.
But it is you, who says,
As we yo-yo back and
Forth before breakfast,
I bet you’ve read everything I’ve read
And more—
I wore this shirt for you
I say: It’s brown.
It’s black.
The corners of my mouth twitch
Your eyes sparkle.
A number scrawled with a bendy pen
On the breakfast menu as we eat
Raisin Bran and Bananas
Calls until you fell asleep,
slept fitfully, woke sweaty.
In a hotel room, a book signed
With laugher and cold hands,
I Love You!
You wrap your arms around me and say, Don’t die.
I say, You too.
And later,
I will not be able to handle it if you kill yourself.
I know; I won’t.
Call Me Crazy
cw: hospitalization, psychosis, suicidal ideation
On the floor, thrashing
Breath rapid as
Nothing spins in my
Head but rage
And an appetite
For striking matches
In the form of screams
Because something is
Wrong, inside—you
Wouldn't know it
On a day like today
For example,
I tell Luke I was crazy, he says
Oh you mean crazy
Like shitfaced
I say, no, I don’t
He says,
Oh you mean crazy
Like really high
He says,
You mean crazy
Like having an off day
No, I mean crazy
Like, spectators
Purchased
Tickets to watch the play
In my living room
From the house
Across the street.
I choose Hamlet,
A play
Within a play
And within it
I am
On the floor,
Unable
To regulate
But still human,
Remember that
I mean crazy like
I am a regular
At the Kings
County Hospital
R-Building, where
The sinks don’t have
Knobs and daytime tv
Is spliced with static
Where I see my psychiatrist
Weekly
Because she is concerned
I mean crazy like a
Suicide risk with a history
Fifteen day of meds at a time
To prevent the preventable
If possible
I mean crazy,
Not as a euphemism
But with kinship for the man
Unhinged on an F train
Who could have been me
And
Was me when I fled home
With my favorite things
In two Baggu bags
And a negative balance
In my checking account,
Going to the midwest
At 2 am outside penn station
Gave away my last cigarette
Posted my entire ambulance ride
On my story because I was
Scared
And
Now once a month I sit in a green chair
At the clinic at the Kings County Hospital R-Building
And wait for the nurse to stick a long needle
In my ass, feel the fluid push inside like
I am a wild creature that must be subdued
After a friend jumped, I wanted to see
How far down it went, and
I know, now that though you
See me as like you,
I see myself as like the man
Digging through the trash
At Jay St MetroTech,
Who i met in inpatient,
Like the woman just looking for $2,
Who sometimes forgets to ask
Because she is too busy
Talking to herself, but when
She tells me she
Loves me, I say it back
Ask anyone who’s ever loved me
If I’ve shattered their heart
And twisted the blade
Ask them and they’ll tell you
I’m crazy, like batshit
But human
And if something was wrong, inside
And I lost it on the F train,
Would you let them kill me too?
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NAOMI BRENMAN is a writer from Brooklyn. She graduated from Sarah Lawrence College, where she studied Creative Nonfiction and Religion. She now finds the brevity of poetry exciting. Her work draws on grief, and aims to amplify the experience of living with mental illness. Her work has been published in Red Noise Collective and Peach Fuzz, and Forever Magazine.