A host of bluebirds coax the pale sun out
of bed, with shrill songs of desperation.
I close the blinds and pour my beggar’s feast
of sour milk and soggy cereal.
I fix a second bowl and wait while my
bland breakfast rapidly disintegrates.
Meanwhile, a hunger of a different kind
is gnawing at my bones and clogging up
my arteries, and grinding at my teeth.
My thoughts are slowly slipping straight into
obscurity—need brain food for brain fog—
and words that once rained down to give me life
now fall into the gutter, down the drain.
This sadness is contractual, I signed
my right to smile off to prescription drugs:
first Lexapro, then Zoloft and Xanax.
I am a cannibal, brain food, brain fog;
I stir my thoughts and feelings into mush.
The doorbell rings; in comes my routine friend
to eat what’s left of my sobriety.
We laugh; I entertain thoughts of death like
the gracious host I am. I invited
the insecurities and fed them well.