I stick flowers in my milk-jug-sized pill bottles; Martha Stewart told me that flowers have the ability to brighten up any space. I like roses the best, even though they wither the quickest without any water. Now all of my pills have petal pieces stuck to their casings. The magnitude of dead foliage inside my guts is astounding. I hope the grown-outside petals can mix with the grown-inside petals and create a funky hybrid rose. If only I had enough hydration to sustain a new anything.
The pills are sapping me completely. I feel like California: stunted, infertile, dry as a bone. I used to be dense with photosynthesis; it was hella sexy. Now I’m all thin and papery, ripe kindling for a forest fire. Mood stabilizers are well-know for their cornucopia of side effects. My cells are degenerating at the speed of light, my hair falls out by the handful, and my eyes are so sensitive that I have to wear those ugly, blind guy, black-plastic sunnies inside. I’m like the poster child for what-not-to-ingest-if-you-ever-hope-to-get-a-date-again.
From kitchen to bedroom to couch and back: I make haphazard crazy eight patterns with my slippered feet. I chill easily these days, and must keep a blanket pinned around my neck like a cape. I have a small gold couch that I salvaged from the dumpster. The upholstery is flaking off in chunks the size of fingernails. My fingernails are flaking off and mixing with the chunks. I think about sweeping a few times a day, but am easily distracted by the sounds of dying inside. I chug water with abandon. I wonder when my post-hospital-assigned-psychologist will call?
The pills are sapping me completely. I feel like California: stunted, infertile, dry as a bone. I used to be dense with photosynthesis; it was hella sexy. Now I’m all thin and papery, ripe kindling for a forest fire. Mood stabilizers are well-know for their cornucopia of side effects. My cells are degenerating at the speed of light, my hair falls out by the handful, and my eyes are so sensitive that I have to wear those ugly, blind guy, black-plastic sunnies inside. I’m like the poster child for what-not-to-ingest-if-you-ever-hope-to-get-a-date-again.
From kitchen to bedroom to couch and back: I make haphazard crazy eight patterns with my slippered feet. I chill easily these days, and must keep a blanket pinned around my neck like a cape. I have a small gold couch that I salvaged from the dumpster. The upholstery is flaking off in chunks the size of fingernails. My fingernails are flaking off and mixing with the chunks. I think about sweeping a few times a day, but am easily distracted by the sounds of dying inside. I chug water with abandon. I wonder when my post-hospital-assigned-psychologist will call?
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