The Cherry Lie

The bottle’s thick and stained a bruised maroon,

I pour a heavy dose into the spoon.

It hits my tongue and suddenly I’m small,

back against the cold and checkered wall.

The tile was seafoam green in ninety-four,

I’m hiding from the flu behind the door.

That fake, sweet fruit can’t hide the bitter sting,

of medicine that doesn't fix a thing.

The plastic cup is sticky on the shelf,

a red-rimmed circle, lonely as myself.