To have your health is to feel that relief. A heartbreaking pride to not be the one in the quiet room, separating their M&Ms. Their MAOI's, SSRI's, antipsychotics. Nap time, snack time. Institutional itinerary of the insane. Your meals still come with a spoon and knife. Your bathroom has a mirror of glass that can shatter. But you're still here, no gurneys or tears. Supposed health, theoretical clarity. But locked doors and alarms no less. Now the screamers, the cannons, lost their health. "Sick as a dog," "Bat shit crazy." Case files know nothing. The freedom fighters, uphill fights in their lobes. Hours of staring, recitations. It's an extra terrestrial health behind a wall Where the terrestrials aren't welcome. You see the doors, the peeling paint, the wristband. They see Utopia, an old friend, an escape. Who is suffering? You who observes it or they who own it? I am healthier on a chart, in a session. But Jesus saves, them dirty jerries, I am Jimmy Carter's mistress; They're free.