Zoloft has killed my poems and my erections. the unfortunate side effects of getting well. my pen won't mark this paper, and my ***** hangs it's head in disappointment. they look me in the face and ask 'why?' I try to tell them, about the constant discomfort, the urge to peel off my skin and escape, how my mind fixates on misery. they seem to understand as well as a ball point pen and a flacid ***** could. their tiny voices squeak 'we want you to be happy' and I think they mean it the three of us wonder if the writing will get easier. the three of us wonder what the point of happiness is without a working ****. the three of us wonder if we are useless without each other.