I remember

I hate that I
still think about
those green walls,
their scolding tones,
"Remember where you are."

I sat next to a boy, that first day
it was four to one.
"You can't sit there!"
he said, the man in charge
of protecting me, and then,
"Remember where you are."

The punishment for not sitting still or
moving too much or taking up space
was the revocation of gym privileges,
our only chance to move and take up space.
The youngest of us was a
skinny kid with ADHD and a big smile,
he never stopped moving.
I watched that smile drop as he suffered
his punishment while the rest of us
walked downstairs.
I wanted to help him, but,
"Remember where you are."

We had to listen to two women
from alcoholics anonymous
even though none of us drank.
I couldn't speak up to say that I never would.
They were sure of who we would become.
I couldn’t explain that I’m paving my own destiny,
I've seen where one glass of whiskey can lead
when your mind looks like mine.
I didn't get to decide,
I was never asked what kind of help I needed.
"Remember where you are."

He touched me that first morning.
His cold hands were the first thing I knew. 
Who would believe me?
They kept reminding me that
I was nobody.
I was my diagnosis.
Nothing more.
"Remember where you are."

All
day
long
in hard, plastic seats,
we didn't speak, and were not
allowed to look outside
the window.
"Remember where you are."

Staff would shuffle in and read off
of pieces of paper,
telling us to get better
but never how.
I soon learned
not to ask questions.
"Remember where you are."

I hate that I
still think about
those green walls.

I hate that I
can't make myself forget.