This poet
held denial in her trembling hands
as the doctor said she will have to be under
for the rest of her life.
That what she was giving me
was not a cure but a suppressant.
I felt reluctant
I could break under the side effects.
Loose myself just like last time
Writing.
My lifeline. My existing salvation.
The one thing that used to help
isnt enough.
Because the symptoms are too great and
I cant ignore them anymore.
Even if I write it all down.
Store them in a box on the back shelf, and bottle it away.
Next to my new prescription pills.
The words I write are still going to be there.
Unreadable to most due to the shaking from fingers tips
that refuse to still.