By Max Gillette
The next time you see me, I will be better
I know you disapprove of my methods
of seeking refuge in prescriptions
But I have no patience for meditation or breathing
exercises
I am insatiable—I inherited that from you
If I could, I would lunge across the counter and
lick sanity’s residue from the pharmacist’s
gloved fingers
I am joy-hungry
I am dumb with apathy
I do not believe I deserve the sadness which is also
my birthright
Every month, I will unfurl my fists and ask the world
to dispense whatever calm it can spare
I will swallow it at dawn
The next time you see me, I’ll have eaten so much joy,
I could be your sun
