My first roommate
jerked the wheel
while her father
drove
down a highway
that terminates
on either side
at the tops of trees
her mother, her brother
just so much
collateral damage
in war
on life
soon
she’s replaced
by a girl
more selfish
with her suicide attempts
the water here, cold
showers are timed
razors verboten
and the tampons come
in cardboard sheaths
a woman
guards the hallway greedily
hogs the light
around her
afraid
of what she’ll see
with us
in the dark
she sits
in a plastic chair
with arms made
for binding arms
group therapy
all the crimes
that got you here
become
public domain
with self destruction
as the common theme
as if
we collaborate
cleverly
the pills
dole out
in scheduled uniformity
we gray away
in shades
everyone has visible
not so subtle
scars
of pride
and self abuse
inflicted by
the turmoil
of inner conflict
and
external
locus of control
my sins
are the worst
I am the whore
and there is no
solidarity
between
sociopaths
and sluts
the girls
cycle through
on shifts
released
at minimum threat
relaxed
back into society
to relapse
on loop
I stay
observe
from my thin cot
and leper-like status
not trusted
with myself
or others.
Rachelle Shepherd is a student and writer living in southern Indiana. She has published with 365 tomorrows and The Molotov Cocktail.
–Art by Menerva Tau