Inside the Brain of the Pill Bottle.

Sober words are never exchanged between him and I, now.
He moves in and out of me, hip bone against hip bone every morning and night. I felt a numb patch grow from inside of me, spreading up my legs and past my pelvis,
layering the inside of me like psycho-sexual, mouthwatering butter, coating my organs in calories;
producing a forbidden acidic burning through
every last
layer.
Our "I love yous" became temporary and my medication helped me find a certain
pleasure in feeling nothing and seeing everything. I envision a razor blade
digging deep into
my own skin after witty side comments and uneccesary disagreements, splitting
the veins and peeling through
the fat.
And I don’t feel scared. I thirst for the courage to press down and choke on my own two
vomit soaked fingers.
I can’t tell if I’m being too hard on myself anymore.

"You need a meeting with the team and we need to talk about your commitment."
I curled into the fetal position, hearing my therapists
voice after missed sessions and skipped groups made the hole in my stomach more
dense.(and you weren’t sure if you liked that or not, where you?)
I cried silently into the reciever, letting out the occasional gasp for air.
"I can’t leave the program. I’m fucked if I do. I’m fucked."
I thought of my pills in my bag, the bottle slightly titled from the pressure of my wallet,
the pills so dainty,
an escape so easy.
"Call me next week and let me know if you’re coming back. You know what I recommend."

My vision and thoughts are fuzzy when I wake in the morning sometimes.
I won’t call her back.