1. I called the doctor every day for three weeks
just to ensure that I was doing okay.
I left voicemails
that grew slowly
more agitated, less soft and sweet,
asking for my results,
for my dose,
hoping for some change,
for some answers,
and still knowing I'll receive silence.
I've been through this before.
2. I hold the small bottle
and cringe
as the smell of the alcohol wipes
sting the inside of my nose
and the needle point
glances soft against my skin.
I don't want to press,
I don't want to push.
I've done it before and I know
it hurts
and it will ache for days after,
but it will get better.
I know it gets better.
I've been through this before.
3. I glance at the pills
on my dresser
next to my alarm clock
for the third time this morning
and tell myself that I will take them
before I'm out the door.
I know I need to.
I know it will help.
but the effort feels immense
and my body is loose from sleep
and I can't seem to go the short distance
and open it all up.
I leave that morning
stomach empty,
bottle still ******* tight.
I do this every day.
I've been through this before, too.
I am stuffed full of things to do
and things to say,
but accomplishing something
is not on the agenda today.
I don't know when it will be.
I don't know that I want it to be.