Content Warning: 

Hey reader! Just a heads up.
This poem talks about psychiatric hospitals, suicide attempts,  institutional trauma, and mental institutionalization and the kind of pain that doesn’t always fit into forms.

It won’t spell everything out, but it might still hit hard, especially if you’ve been through something similar.

Take what you need. Skip what you don’t.
You’re allowed to stop reading. You’re allowed to come back later.

This piece is a personal poem only meant to witness.

NCMH: A Visit

-by April Pagaling

═ I. Arrival ═

They say loob like a direction.
I write it on my arm in ballpoint.
The bronze woman with the hollow eyes
  says nothing
  but still implies
  you have forgotten someone.

  You enter.
   You exit.
    You enter again.
     This is called: “procedure.”

═ II. Waiting ═

I fill the form.

It asks:

HAVE YOU TRIED TO DIE

I mark “yes” in lowercase.
My aunt corrects it.
Marks “no.”

It isn’t dying
unless you meant it.
Her handwriting is Catholic.

I leave Line 4B blank.

  The blank becomes a corridor.
    The corridor becomes
      my answer.

We are not permitted
to explain our metaphors.
We are asked
to be honest
in the format provided.

═ III. Inside ═

Inside is a construct.
Outside is a memory.
Inside is where syntax breaks.

    The corridor repeats.
    The smell repeats.
    The boy muttering repeats.
    The soap lies.

The nurse moves
like someone who has swallowed
every scream
in alphabetical order.

The woman sings
to her not-baby.

  I begin to forget
    my own grammar.

They call it loob.
The word itself feels
folded.

═ IV. Breathe ═

The sun loves this place.
The trees are enormous.
The buildings rot
under rust and time.

Old American bones
painted over with mold.

There is the smell
of something good
dying slowly.

The form repeats itself
like an Angelus
written by someone
who never believed in God.

I forget whether I ever arrived.
  I check the box.
    I uncheck it.
      I go back.

Failure is a loop
not unlike faith.

═ V. Outside ═

Loob is what you survive.
Labas is what survives you.

Outside is just the absence
of a clipboard.

The guard says:

NEXT

  This means: not you.

My name fades.
Maybe I never had one.

I leave one slipper.
Take nothing.
Carry a name
misspelled
into another waiting room.

My file closes.
The line opens.

Sisa holds the children still.
The bridge waits.

We are all,
technically,
between.

═ Appendix I: Record ═

I asked for a copy.
They said I wasn’t authorized to see myself.

— RECORD —
NAME: (wrong)
DATE: (approximate)
DIAGNOSIS: (still under review)
DISCHARGE: (premature)

[NOTE IN MARGINS:]

Patient responded well to instructions.

What did I lose
to become so obedient.

The file is complete.
  The story isn’t.

═ Appendix II: The Blank ═

This page is reserved for —

  What was crossed out.
  What was whispered.
  What wasn’t safe.

The blank is not empty.
It’s just tired.

It holds—
  the erased name.
  the dead child’s toy.
  the joke that didn’t land.
  the hand you almost raised
    but didn’t.

No signature.
No diagnosis.
No redemption.

Just this:

  You’re still here.
  And the form
  can’t explain it.