In The Car on the Way to the Hospital

When he circles the roundabout,

I am pressed against the car door,

And it starts to hurt again. 

Bandages coiled around both arms 

like tefillin,

Blood as red as wine.

We rush through the night air,

A truly religious experience,

Worshipping in the synagogue of pain. 

I pull my cap down over my eyes,

Because the lights, they blur together,

Just like I knew they would. 

Just like they do every time.

Thank you to Christina Lee for their inspired edit on this piece and everyone else on the Mental Health team.

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