Sick girl, sick girl,
have another pill, girl.
Swallow the silence
until it’s still.
Moonlight bends
across your skin,
a fragile glow
for the storm within.
Take another test,
open another vein,
the ink runs red
with whispered pain.
They say your numbers
don’t make sense,
as if your body
were the evidence.
They poke, they ****
they watch you fade,
a living ghost
in a sterile parade.
Each answer ends
where another begins,
the cycle spins,
and you’re dizzy within.
Sick girl, sick girl,
the walls know your name.
The beeps and hums
sing your refrain.
You smile for them,
that brave disguise,
while pain paints galaxies
behind your eyes.
You count your scars
like rosary beads,
praying for peace
the body never concedes.
Hope tastes bitter,
faith feels thin,
and healing,
a word that won’t sink in.
They promise someday,
they’ll find the key,
unlock the sickness,
and set you free.
But you’ve learned the truth
beneath the skin,
the war is quiet,
and fought within.
The water hums
beneath your breath,
dark as mercy,
snd close as death.
You dream in ripples,
cold and deep,
where secrets drown
and angels weep.
You smile for them,
but it’s just a mask,
a porcelain face
for a thankless task.
You’ve learned to float
when you should fall,
to say “I’m fine”
when you feel nothing at all.
They promise light,
but you’ve seen its cost,
for every dawn,
something’s lost.
So you stay where shadows
softly spill,
sick girl, sick girl,
have another pill.
And in the dark,
when the night is kind,
you trace the outline
of your mind.
You whisper,
“Maybe I’m not wrong,
maybe I was just
sick for too long.”
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 9:10 PM UTC
Sick girl, sick girl,
have another pill, girl.
Swallow the silence
until it’s still.
Moonlight bends
across your skin,
a fragile glow
for the storm within.
Take another test,
open another vein,
the ink runs red
with whispered pain.
They say your numbers
don’t make sense,
as if your body
were the evidence.
They poke, they ****
they watch you fade,
a living ghost
in a sterile parade.
Each answer ends
where another begins,
the cycle spins,
and you’re dizzy within.
Sick girl, sick girl,
the walls know your name.
The beeps and hums
sing your refrain.
You smile for them,
that brave disguise,
while pain paints galaxies
behind your eyes.
You count your scars
like rosary beads,
praying for peace
the body never concedes.
Hope tastes bitter,
faith feels thin,
and healing,
a word that won’t sink in.
They promise someday,
they’ll find the key,
unlock the sickness,
and set you free.
But you’ve learned the truth
beneath the skin,
the war is quiet,
and fought within.
The water hums
beneath your breath,
dark as mercy,
snd close as death.
You dream in ripples,
cold and deep,
where secrets drown
and angels weep.
You smile for them,
but it’s just a mask,
a porcelain face
for a thankless task.
You’ve learned to float
when you should fall,
to say “I’m fine”
when you feel nothing at all.
They promise light,
but you’ve seen its cost,
for every dawn,
something’s lost.
So you stay where shadows
softly spill,
sick girl, sick girl,
have another pill.
And in the dark,
when the night is kind,
you trace the outline
of your mind.
You whisper,
“Maybe I’m not wrong,
maybe I was just
sick for too long.”
The struggles of being sick, of knowing something is wrong, but no one being able to tell you. The doctors, the tests, the labs, the imaging, and the pills -- my God, the pills, oh and here's one in case all the others make you nauseous. It’s a battle, every minute, every second. You pray for it to stop, but it never does. Sick girl, sick girl, take another pill, girl.
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