Standing here,
the left side of my brain argues with the right.
They discuss, heaven, hell, and
can't we open the medicine cabinet once more?
We know they're in there.
The anti-depressants are a soft pink.
I swallow them with the metal taste of tap water.
The mirror is cold, an island, a hand on my forehead.
You look like a cyclops.
I picture what it's like to have an eye in the middle,
easily hidden in my hair.
- - - -
Leave,
before he notices.
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