The therapist tells my mother that my scars will heal.
She did nothing wrong.
My brain is the problem.
Chemicals unbalanced.
Slashes on my wrist will fade.
The depression may not.

The therapist tells my mother I respond well to music.
I make beautiful melodies on a bloodstained guitar.
I keep beat with rattles of prescription candies.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
One measure.
One dose.
Knock back the glass like it’s filled with throat burning *****.