The pills smooth the static,
quiet the rattling wires in my chest.
For a while,
I remember what it feels like to breathe without splinters.

But the bell rings,
the halls swarm,
and suddenly the air is teeth again.
every glance is a spotlight,
every sound, a hammer.

My calm dissolves
under fluorescent ceilings an hour at a time—
until the medicine feels
like water poured
into. a. burning. house.
...
I swallow each dose
like a prayer,
but school drowns it out,
and I’m left wondering
if healing is meant to vanish
the moment I walk through those doors.

I drag myself through the weeks and the noise,
holding a bottle that promises
more than it delivers.

Maybe it’s me.
Maybe nothing’s enough to quiet a storm
that keeps finding new ways to break.

and so i keep swallowing,
keep hoping,
keep sitting in classrooms
where my heartbeat is louder
than the teacher’s voice—
pretending the medicine is working,
pretending i am too.