And there was that rich girl who slit her wrists
Because nobody understood. (not the psychiatrist father, nor the psychologist mother)
The twelve-year-old boy
"I NEED AN HIV TEST! HE SPIT ON ME!"
The quiet brown-haired girl cries. She SCREAMS; "THIS FUCKING PICTURE. FUCKING DRIVES ME NUTS!" (A poster of a woman playing tennis.)
Her parents visit regularly. They bring her poster of Kurt Cobain to cover the tennis player. They bring her the Care Bears sleeping bag that her Grandmother gave her for Christmas at age five.
That brown-haired girl wants her disc-man! She misses fucking Seven-Year-Bitch and In Utero!
She screams, "Daddy! I cannot see! These pills! I can't see!"
Her roommate is a trollop: sleeps with the lazy-eyed Puerto-Rican in the shower when the charge nurse is handing out meds. (She checks under the tongue, so that the children cannot fake taking their Haldol.)
THey all look out the window. The windows, Plexiglas and barred, but they can see the city below.
Saint Patrick's Day, Easter.
They watch the parades.
Staring down below at the world
Klonopin found a toilet by the graveyard. I don't know if she used it or not.