Only those willing to go too far will know how far they can go.

25 mg. of 50

Little blue pill, a bitter Tic Tac

(chalky, not so refreshing)

blocking neurotransmitters, signals in the brain, messengers

of control, regulating

electricity — buzz, buzzz, buzzzz–


whaling of arms,

thrusting of

voice, hitting of feet and

the stomping of hands

as if a toddler inhabited

this body.


Little bottle,

little label

little help.


Dispense as written: a 1/2 tablet by

mouth daily for depression—

Who’s depressed?       I’m angry.  Angry

at the world     Angry

at the discrimination.  Angry

at Mike                        Angry

at Julie                  Angry

at life               Angry

at myself,        but

most of all

Angry at

my Anger.


Swallowing this little blue

pill every morning,

sedating myself from

my anger, my sadness,

my authentic self– I’ll never learn

to live, to accept

who I’ve become and

what I’ve lost

and what I’ve gained.


…I take it anyway.



A grooved line separates the 50 mg.

into halves that’s big

enough for place-

ment of my thumbnail (the candy’s

smooth bottom caressed

by my index finger).


It breaks into


ZOL rests way back on

my tongue, the muscle of

speech, the muscle of feast.

OFT rests on the

countertop next to the sink, next to my

toothpaste, next to my toothbrush

next to my tomorrow.


My tongue contracts backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards

no swallow, nothing.

My index finger pushes bitter candy further

back on my tongue,

activating a nonexistent gag reflex, while


water melts the pill–


I swallow

not as if I were

taking candy

from a baby—


not too close to the edge

she might fall;

not too close to the water,

she might drown



skid marks inside

my esophagus,

a sedimentary

line burning in my throat

like burping pop through

your nose.

The sensation lingers

on my taste buds

like the aftertaste of

a tongue depressor.

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