How Can You Help Me Pt. 2: Psychology 201 What the Pills Tried to Teach Me

The pills don’t whisper like the room did

They clink

They think

They push me to the brink  

Before I even swallow

I pour them into my palm

Small

Calm

But carrying a psalm  

I never asked to follow

Colors stare back

White like surrender

Red like remember

Blue like the version of me  

I keep trying to render  

Less broken

I hold one up

Watch it shine

Fine line

Tiny shrine  

To everything I’m trying to fix  

Without knowing how

And the truth hits hard 

I don’t think you’re helping me

Not the pill

Not the promise

Not the ritual I repeat  

Like a prayer I don’t believe

My thoughts scatter

Clatter

Shatter

Climb the ladder  

Of everything I’ve been avoiding 

The bottle feels like a judge

Nudging me  

Toward a version of myself  

I’m not sure I trust

I breathe in

Thin

Within  

The spin  

Of everything I’ve been

And the pill waits on my skin  

Like it wants to begin  

Rewriting me again 

I swallow

Not slow

Not poetic

Just tired

It slides down  

Like a truth I didn’t choose

And the world tilts

Shifts

Drifts  

Into a lesson  

I’m not sure I’m ready for

I sit there

Hands shaking 

Heart aching

Mind making  

Excuses for why  

I keep taking  

Something that feels  

Like it’s faking  

Its way through me

And the line rises again

Louder this time  

Rhyming with the pulse  

In my throat

I don’t think you’re helping me

Not today

Not like this

Not in this chemical classroom  

Where the teacher is a pill  

And the homework is my body  

Trying to understand  

What it just agreed to

When the session ends

I don’t carry quiet

I carry the aftertaste  

Of something I trusted  

Because I’m tired  

Of losing to myself

And the truth walks out with me

Step for step

Breath for breath 

I don’t think you’re helping me

But I keep trying anyway