These 20 milligrams of Prozac
have my brain wrapped in lace:
            warm blues and white sighs.

One white pill, each morning
to dull the blade of life

and my brown eyes rust
hazel in the daylight
the doctors shove me, face-first, into.

The sun is so much harsher
than the moon: it burns
holes in my vision
and I stumble and blink
until they scab over.

I do not howl or whimper,
    scream or cry.
My face is silent
                      and stares,
like the white-powdered moon:

          wide and brimming.