An artist in disguise

My high school experience wasn't a textbook one.

I didn't have a prom date or a homecoming dance. 

My classroom took place in a psych ward.

My notebooks were filled with love letters addressed to the slits on my wrists.

The concept of friendship was foreign to me. 

While most kids were trying out new trends and figuring out which cliques to tag along with, I was doodling story plot ideas during family therapy.

The building that I was escorted to in handcuffs was the same place where I began finding my voice through words.

It wasn't the medication or the counselors who helped me put pen to paper.

It was all of the artists disguised as patients.

The pain in their paintings and the scars in their sketches are what inspired me to bleed my truth without using a blade.

In the psych ward, the concept of friendship was no longer foreign to me.

I spent the first half of my stay begging to be discharged, but by the time my turn came, I didn't want to leave.

Patients are not allowed to exchange contact information, so I can only hope that the kids who sparked a light in me never burn themselves to the ground.