C₁₀H₁₂N₂O: Ode to Serotonin
The therapist said you need sertraline.
Generic brand is still more
than you can afford. You cough up the tens anyways,
dropping them from fingers overworked
To the bone, nails chewed to skin
Near cerulean capsules quiet the hot static
Pulses, obsessive thoughts
Brain always switched on
like the flickering bathroom bulb your mother stands under
as she scrubs her hands raw. You wonder if they are sticky
like the candy-coated words she pours
from her lips or the slick lies she has been told.
The therapist said you need sertraline.
He said you have your father’s
eyes, as though your honey browns
are covering up his icy blues.
The man with the prescription pad
Stares at you and says that you are not whole.
He thinks your fizzy chaos is more
like your father’s live wire
Than your mother’s high tide.
Your brain quiets more in the silence
Than under the influence
of a licensed dealer like him.
You still look in the mirror
and you take the pills to hide
the blue underneath
your irises.
