There’s A Pill for That
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 i...