The bottle is orange a bright plastic shout

The bottle is orange, a bright plastic shout.

I struggled to get the little pills out.

The cotton was stuffed in there tight as a drum,

and it caught on the hangnail I’ve got on my thumb.

That dry, muffled screech—it’s the sound of a bone

rubbing on felt. I’m here all alone

with a mouth full of salt and a heart full of dread.

I wish I could pull all the fluff from my head.

It’s stringy and grey and it sticks to my skin.

I threw it away and I tried for a grin—

no, that’s not it. I just stood there and felt

like a person whose skeleton started to melt.