Q03 LU

8 1 1

Q03 LU

Happy Tuesday I recite

to myself and swallow

the oblong pill. Blue and

green. That commercial

rings around my head.

"Depression hurts,

Cymbalta can help."

Help. Do I need help?

I am not my own.

"We had you so your

sibling wouldn't be alone."

so he had someone to torture.

"I was alone, I didn't want

him to be."

But nobody asked if I

ever felt lonely? If I

ever wanted to be here?

If I ever felt anything at all?

My emotions are contained

by hydraulic presses. Will

I pop? No. Will I burn? No.

Who is in control? Certainly

not I, who was never asked.

What must my suffering

smell like? Mildew-soaked

carpet. Two-percent milk. Ink.

What must it taste like?

Green soap. Wet cement.

Deet. Oat puffs. Salt.

Nobody asked: are you?

Yes, I am. I do. Help. 

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