There’s A Pill for That
tiny, chalk-white,
a promise pressed into her palm.
She eats her hallucinations whole,
swallowing shadows
until her throat tastes like ghosts.
She’s tired.
Bone-tired.
Tired of the static
buzzing in the corners of her mind,
tired of her name echoing
back at her like a warning.
She’s tried everything—
kindness,
(well, sort of),
tight smiles and tighter lips,
praising instead of pleading,
restraining her hunger
until her ribs rattle like a cage.
Restricting her wants,
minimizing her desires,
folding herself smaller and smaller
like a prescription slip
she can’t afford to fill.
And still,
the noise comes back.
The ache returns.
The smell hits her first
when the bottle cracks open—
a sharp, chemical sting
that clings to her fingertips.
Then the taste—
coating her tongue,
like souring guts turning inside her,
a bitterness that even water can’t drown.
The pills line up wheat fields on her nightstand,
each one promising a softer silence
that never lasts.
She wonders if the cure
isn’t in the swallowing
but in the screaming.
If the healing
isn’t in the pill
but in the truth
she keeps trying to wash down
with water and hope.
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