by Kelly H., 17
Four white walls
I sit in a folding chair.
I sit and stare
at drying paint.
How long had it been?
Peeling back the skin
around my fingernails.
The paint’s drying.
Or am I losing my mind?
My eyes—going blind.
An alarm sounds
I jump to my feet.
The moment is bittersweet.
A door appears
I turn the knob.
My head begins to throb
as before me I see
yet another white room
with wet paint waiting for me.
Brielle, New Jersey
Bridge Ink 