Staring
at the wall.
Seeing
faces.
They’re
all here with me,
their
names unknown.
It’s the little things
that one misses.
The
doctor said
I’ll
want to sleep off the side effects
for the
first few days-
until my
body adjusts; a
short period of sedation.
I’ll
sleep and stumble
for
the next four to five days
of
mind rebuilding oblivion
I
keep one hand on the wall, an
anchor, afraid
I’ll float away.
I recall these same remedies
being sold for tens and twenties.
It
was a free for all at
every locker break.
A
sixth grader had
the round white ones with the split in the middle.
The
seventh grader who
had the pink football
looking ones,
and
the eighth grader with the powder blue triangles.
We
were pre-teen monsters unaware
of the hooks we were piercing ourselves with.
I
crave the feeling of those hooks
digging into a meddled consciousness.
There is
a mystical calmness
to being
brought to a place like this,
to sleep
for a thousand years
in an
eternal hibernation
poisoned-princess
style.
The doctor tells fables
of functionality after the fact.
Pleasing tales of
possible long term results
that are carried over after
the tale is done.
I want
to go to the store and buy a toothbrush
walk
the aisles aimlessly,
get
a burger and a beer…
but the anchor is short… the length of
my arm.
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