The headache pill a white and chalky thing

The headache pill, a white and chalky thing,

it caught, just for a second, on my tongue.

And then the memory, the bitter, sweet sting,

from when I was small, and not so strong.

That thick red syrup, smelling of fake fruit,

held in a plastic spoon, a measured doom.

It burned the throat, right down to the root,

a taste that still can fill a waking room.

No matter how much water followed after,

it clung, that grit, that chemical sweet, then sour.

A child's defeat, no easy, quick laughter,

just waiting out the dark, slow, sickly hour.

Still there, that phantom scorch, a sour trick.

Even now, years later, when I'm just a little sick.