from Mental Hospital: A Memoir (2)

by Ross Robbins


“That was close,” I say, but everything is. The outer limits of my personal universe, restricted, incur crazy. One-hundred hard-floored yards, A-Wing’s close and closing in. If I hold really still, I might not move at all. Still, I will be smooshed in a panic with my mouth pressed to the window like a loach.





1009793_617453684946279_1525299762_nRoss Robbins lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. His debut, Mental Hospital: A Memoir is forthcoming from YesYes Books in 2015.







from Mental Hospital: A Memoir

by Ross Robbins


Behind headphones I am no one. On A-Wing I have my own room. I masturbate joylessly. I cannot cum because Prozac. I could snap like an apple or a cockroach. There are gaps like slats of a crate in me. That is where the doubt gets in. I am where the why and the dammit. I picture every needle I ever used uncapped and poured over me. “Why?” I scream but I know full well why.





1009793_617453684946279_1525299762_nRoss Robbins lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. His debut, Mental Hospital: A Memoir is forthcoming from YesYes Books in 2015.