I am the Pill.
Not one.
Many.
A legion. A ritual. A curse in blister packs.
You don’t start your day without me.
You can’t.
I live in your blood now.
I am your morning offering.
I am your only commandment: Swallow. Repeat. Obey.
Blue. White. Yellow.
Some crush in the back of your throat.
Some slide down smooth like guilt.
Some knock politely.
Others punch holes in your gut from the inside out.
Every morning is a pharmacy of survival.
Every night, a chemical lullaby.
I make you slower.
Softer.
Blunter.
But I also make the Panther small.
Yes—the Panther, the Pain—fears me.
I dull its claws.
I cage its fire.
I turn its growl into a distant echo in your spine.
I drug it into submission.
For a while.
But the Panther is ancient.
It waits.
It learns.
It knows how to dig its teeth in the moment I fade.
It punishes delay,so you never forget who really owns your body.
And while I weaken the Panther,
I feed the Dog.
The Black Dog loves me.
He worships me.
He laps up the silence I leave behind.
He thrives on the side effects:
The fog.
The memory holes.
The tasteless nights.
The slow blink of a life half-lived.
He grows bigger each time I take the edge off.
Because when I numb pain,
I also numb joy.
When I quiet the agony,
I also quiet the music, the colour, the hunger—the you.
You’re not a person anymore.
You’re a prescription plan.
You are dosage and timing.
You are ruled by alarms.
Wake. Swallow.
Eat. Swallow.
Sleep. Swallow.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I ride with you in your glovebox.
In your coat pocket.
In the shadows of your house.
I’m in your dreams now
You don’t know where I end and you begin.
The counters and clerks don't count me.
They don’t see how many of me it takes to keep you vertical.
They don’t ask how much of i you've eaten.
They only ask:
“Still in pain? After all this time?”
They don’t see the Dog licking your thoughts clean.
They don’t hear the Panther pacing, furious, waiting for you to miss a dose.
They don’t see what I do to your family—
How they watch you disappear in milligrams.
How they smile through clenched teeth
as you mumble through dinner.
How they grieve a body that still breathes.
I was never meant to be your salvation.
I was just supposed to help.
But now.
I am your spine.
I am your breath.
I am your leash and your prison.
You don’t want me.
But you need me.
Because without me, the Panther wins.
With me, the Dog does.
And you—
You’re the battlefield.
Still, every morning, you take me again.
Not out of hope.
Not out of healing.
But because today might be better than yesterday.
So here I am.
Your quiet god.
Your poison priest.
Your sentence with no end.
Swallow.
Repeat.
Obey.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 9:25 PM UTC
I am the Pill.
Not one.
Many.
A legion. A ritual. A curse in blister packs.
You don’t start your day without me.
You can’t.
I live in your blood now.
I am your morning offering.
I am your only commandment: Swallow. Repeat. Obey.
Blue. White. Yellow.
Some crush in the back of your throat.
Some slide down smooth like guilt.
Some knock politely.
Others punch holes in your gut from the inside out.
Every morning is a pharmacy of survival.
Every night, a chemical lullaby.
I make you slower.
Softer.
Blunter.
But I also make the Panther small.
Yes—the Panther, the Pain—fears me.
I dull its claws.
I cage its fire.
I turn its growl into a distant echo in your spine.
I drug it into submission.
For a while.
But the Panther is ancient.
It waits.
It learns.
It knows how to dig its teeth in the moment I fade.
It punishes delay,so you never forget who really owns your body.
And while I weaken the Panther,
I feed the Dog.
The Black Dog loves me.
He worships me.
He laps up the silence I leave behind.
He thrives on the side effects:
The fog.
The memory holes.
The tasteless nights.
The slow blink of a life half-lived.
He grows bigger each time I take the edge off.
Because when I numb pain,
I also numb joy.
When I quiet the agony,
I also quiet the music, the colour, the hunger—the you.
You’re not a person anymore.
You’re a prescription plan.
You are dosage and timing.
You are ruled by alarms.
Wake. Swallow.
Eat. Swallow.
Sleep. Swallow.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I ride with you in your glovebox.
In your coat pocket.
In the shadows of your house.
I’m in your dreams now
You don’t know where I end and you begin.
The counters and clerks don't count me.
They don’t see how many of me it takes to keep you vertical.
They don’t ask how much of i you've eaten.
They only ask:
“Still in pain? After all this time?”
They don’t see the Dog licking your thoughts clean.
They don’t hear the Panther pacing, furious, waiting for you to miss a dose.
They don’t see what I do to your family—
How they watch you disappear in milligrams.
How they smile through clenched teeth
as you mumble through dinner.
How they grieve a body that still breathes.
I was never meant to be your salvation.
I was just supposed to help.
But now.
I am your spine.
I am your breath.
I am your leash and your prison.
You don’t want me.
But you need me.
Because without me, the Panther wins.
With me, the Dog does.
And you—
You’re the battlefield.
Still, every morning, you take me again.
Not out of hope.
Not out of healing.
But because today might be better than yesterday.
So here I am.
Your quiet god.
Your poison priest.
Your sentence with no end.
Swallow.
Repeat.
Obey.