All I Want in the Psych Ward Is to Wear a Dress

photo by Ko Backpacko

I am waiting for a new episode of Killing Eve. 
I watch the clock in the day room, 8pm,
then claim my seat bolted to the floor,
tuck my knees under my chin, and watch
Villanelle glide across the screen,
sharp & elegant,
like the knife in her hand.
There are no knives in a psych ward.
There is nothing sharp, or elegant.
The walls are all white & beige,
the puzzles are all missing pieces.
There is no hook
on which to hang your towel,
no lid for the toilet seat.
I love the clothes in Killing Eve.
The extravagant & purposeless
dresses Jodie Comer wears.
Eve & her practical business attire,
clean simple colors, the focus
on Sandra Oh, her hair, her face.
Shorts are not allowed in the psych ward.
I wear dark leggings,
long-sleeved shirts
under baggy pullovers.
I decide when I get out, I will
only wear dresses for a week,
maybe longer.
I think of my shift dress
with the armholes that hang low,
the edge of the lavender branch tattoo
under the curve of my left breast.
I ask if I can go outside
for the scheduled smoke break
though I don’t smoke.
The nurse says “Of course.” 
I don’t like the way my voice sounds,
hungry & pleading,
but the moment disappears
when I am in the sun,
though none of the sunlight
touches any skin outside of my neck,
my face, my hands. Even so,
when I am first let outside I lie down
on my back in the grass, itchy, clinging.
I roll in it, the dark fabric of my leggings
soaking up the heat to the skin beneath.
The other patients who before thought
my being here might be a mistake,
know now that I am also crazy
as they watch me writhe on the ground
in meditation,
or perhaps prayer.
Many stub out their cigarettes for later
in the small gazebo, wander
into the sunlight & grass.
Some kick a found soccer ball.
Some sit with me, legs crossed over one another.
I remember that it is May,
that soon the setting will change.
When all this is over, I think I may lie
naked & let myself turn raw & pink.