I was looking for something to dull the throb

I was looking for something to dull the throb

behind my temple, some aspirin or a pill.

Instead, I find the wreckage of the job

my body tried to do when I was ill.

There’s a bottle of syrup from 2019

that tips and spills a dry, gray dust

onto my toothbrush. It’s a dusty, dull scene

of safety seals and a thin layer of rust

where a shaving cream can sat on the glass.

I see the pills for the sleep that never came,

and the cream for the rash that didn't pass,

all labeled with my younger, healthier name.

It’s a museum of every small, frantic fear

I’ve tucked behind the mirror and out of sight.

I close the door, but the reflection is clear.

I still have the headache. I’m still not right.