I have a pill in my pocket. One that keeps me awake with a spring in my step, a hope in my heart and the day that lies before me.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you. That my fluttering frivolous words actually meant something.
I have a pill in my pocket. One that swings my mood with a smile for Sunday, a tear for Tuesday and a foul worded mouth for Friday.
Don’t say you didn’t enjoy it. That the sensual sounds you made were all for show.
I have a pill in my pocket. One that is filled with dreams of tiny things, little hands and smaller feet.
Don’t say you didn’t dream, didn’t care, didn’t hope for it to manifest. You did. As I did too.
But, for different reasons.
You because you had no hope. No confidence. No healthy motive for anything you did.
Me, because I loved you and thought that was all I needed to make it work.
We were both wrong.
I have pills, in a jar. At home in the cabinet. Pills to make all of this better.
To make it all…go…away.
One swallow, a GULP and a sigh of relief and this pain is removed.
A pill to remind me that I failed.
That happiness is now a prescription, a daily dose of dehumanizing medication if I choose to swallow.
For today, I choose not to swallow. Not to ingest that pill. Not to take in that manufactured happiness.
In my pocket, I have some pills. Pills for my health. Pills that I choose to take.