Neither fight nor flight—
I am a hostage of the chemicals,
the shrink’s hand-me-down lullabies:
wake, smile, sleep, cry—
a parade of puppets on taut strings.
Not a thread of shame,
no blush to mark the trespass of my will.
Balance, he says, is a tightrope act.
Obedience hums like a steady drumbeat.
But the body—
oh, the body knows nothing of balance,
only the edge, the gaping maw of almost.
Painkillers slip into my pocket like coins for Charon—
companions for the journey into this fabricated calm.
I sit in the shadow of myself,
watching the rehearsals of humanity:
the mimicry of laughter,
the choreographed tears,
the steady gaze of eye contact—a ritual I master.
Release, he says.
And I, ever the good patient,
release into the artificial tide,
the undertow of someone else’s control.
Still, the body whispers of rebellion,
a quiet ache that longs for rawness,
for the chaos that keeps the blood
pulsing,
real.