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.