Green pills, yellow pills, white pills. I wonder if they color code the pills to match the malady, green to soothe, yellow to wake, white to purify evil thoughts, black like ravens who peck and caw, Jezebel's bones, sodden red tulips, dogs lapping, tongues so black, black holes that like eating novas and girls like me that just happen to see the testifying of bricks. "Here someone was murdered", fickle neurons, scandalized hieroglyphs of blood, constellations of wolves such bloody tongued dogs.
"Open," the nurse says checking to see if I have swallowed her pills. I always do hoping such sacred behavior will loosen me of this place. If I promise to believe everything they say? But Nurse Mary is quite contrary, maiden's breath grows in her garden, clouds of crushed stems, pollen and powder. Maybe she sees the wolf. My flamingoes feel the unease of rhyming couplets and badly played croquet. What would Alice do? What would the Duchess do? What happened to Jack and Jill after they smashed their fragile skulls. Did they come here wearing buckets on their heads, water and moss, tendrils so tender you want to lick them.
Sometimes I wonder why do I want to leave. There are no restraints now just nurses tap dancing, words of soft arpeggios. "Now that one there." I count their footsteps like counting sheep until the sleeping pills pull me into a room where I chat with Bluebeard's wives. But there are no dreams there except the occasional dropped head. But that is dandy fine since life wears sheep's clothing and I have already counted the bites. Maybe I have won. I lap the blood, gritty dirt and lichen from Jack and Jill's skin, so tender. They shiver like flamingoes before they see the hard wooden ball. So many stories. I just don't know mine.