My temple is a drum a steady rhythmic beat

My temple is a drum, a steady, rhythmic beat,

I’m looking for the pills to help me feel complete—

well, not complete, just quiet. I hit the water glass

and watch the band-aids drown. I’m such a clumsy ass.

The paper backings clear, they turn a ghostly white.

I’m reaching past the bottles, squinting at the light.

There’s a bottle from three years ago, a sickness I forgot,

sitting in an amber ring, a sticky, hardened spot.

It’s like a surgery scar upon the plastic shelf,

a map of every time I’ve tried to fix myself.