The orange sun gently pulls down the day
and I’m satisfied that one week has passed
since I lined up the plastic bottles of green and white,
since blister packs of pink were stuffed in the secret pockets
of every bag and drawer and corner of my life.
It’s been seven days since I plipped a pink pill from the pack,
clacked the childproof lids open and poured the green and white
candy into my hand, since I frantically ransacked
the seams of my bag, brushed the fluff off a pink pill
and slipped it into the corner of my mouth with a sideways glance.
Half a fortnight since I swirled the pretty pastels
down my plughole to form a blanket around my stomach;
since my veins droned to a slow descent
like a low-flying spitfire coming in to land.
The pockets of time spent
on the balcony alone in the night,
smothering my senses with grass,
carefully licking fat rizlas closed
sucking them into my already loaded veins,
A quarter of a month has passed and I’ve polished the blackened spoons
stripped my stomach
and vacuumed my lungs
My skin goosebumps again like
static on a silk shirt for no reason but a
whisper of wind, or the tempo of a song.
I celebrate the aggravated membranes of my nose,
the flutters of nausea that excite my stomach
from time to time, and the rushes of fear which punctuate my days
knowing, that I have walked, alone, with myself
for seven days.