Looney tunes

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” I hear in the distance. Probably someone else getting the booty juice. (The shot the nurses give to the “bad kids.”) I’ve only got it a few times. But all them times gives me nightmares, and everytime I’m bad it reminds me of how bad that syringe hurt when it stuck inside me and released the chilling poison that’s supposed to make us “good kids.” I know none of us are really bad kids; we’re just a little loony upstairs. Our jammys with an orange and white stripe going up and down the lengthy jumpsuit, is most likely why we have the label of “bad kids.” Because we resemble people in prison. But I just want to go home, that’s all. They tell me I can’t go home until I get better, and I wont be proclaimed better until I stop “stabbing” other kids with plastic forks at lunch time. I’ve never stabbed anyone with a plastic fork. And I only poke them with my eating utensil because I want their attention but when they see the blood dripping down they’re porcelain baby skin they go completely wacko and scream until an adult comes. And everytime this happens the adult gives me a crazy wide-eyed look. And call security, the security guys are my heroes. They save me from all the crazy kids. They’re like the only ones who give me the attention I need. They lead me to the same room every time give me medicine, that quickly knocks me out, and wrap me up with a warm comfy blanket. As I dream I’m back home with my family, I’m far from this mental hospital. And most importantly I’m not alone and my mothers alive and healthy. And when I awake I’m stuck in this hell hole agian.