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Friends in White Lab Coats: Modern Medicine


It’s exhausting
That the room darkens with sunset
Lights turned down low and the whole house quiet
Shadows creeping along the walls
Dancing with the spiders in the corners
Standing over you when you wake
After finally dozing for half an hour
And then eyes wide open
They give me Ambien

It’s exasperating
That the vice around your
Lungs tightens
With every breath
And you’re aspirating
And you’re counting breaths
And grasping at air
And grasping for straws
Because there’s no stillness
They give me Xanax

It’s distracting
That I keep watching her lips move
But I don’t hear the words she says
Because her lips are forming them all wrong
And I don’t even know what she’s talking about
Big appellations blanketed in familiar pronouncements
The letters all jumbled in my head
A million different TV stations blaring at once
And I can’t find the remote
They give me Adderall

It’s painful
That your body fights
When you exercise,
When you move,
When you don’t exercise,
When you don’t move
When the pain creeps in every day
And settles into aching bones
Like the spider in the attic darkness
Embracing its babies in the corner cobwebs
They give me Vicodin
And a piss test

It’s depressing
That good news comes in little bubbles
Delicate and wavering, and then they pop
And happiness is just a mask you wear
On the days you feel like getting out of bed
They give me Zoloft

And the blanket you pull over half-open eyes
On the days you don’t
and Prozac

But you do it anyway
And the smile is so practiced, so deceitful
That you almost fool yourself
and Paxil

They give me more Ambien