Aizawa621

Going off medication is like riding a bike. The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning. "Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart. I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration

Sitting up in bed tonight, in clothes of cotton. My clothes. White cotton, so quickly waterlogged, so slow to dry. They will bear the scent and taste of wine forever on their shoulders, these clothes of mine. Cotton of the many seeds, the child taken so painfully from its mother’s side. Dripping like a cut tomato are my clothes. In red I am soaked wet. White cotton, grown in black dirt. Do you remember if you’ve eaten, the internalization of my counselor asks me? Yes, I have eaten. What fuels my body is lodged in the throat of my soul. I choke upon the name Chiquita as my counselor reminds me you shall not eat blood. I choke upon