Prescribed Celebration

(yes, I'm serious) Three minutes. That’s how long it took to name a swarming mess: A self-appointed poet with rogue chemicals sizzling in her nerves. The diagnosis long and fancy— bitter but addictive on my tongue, like the gin I’ve grown fluent in. (Is that why his voice was slurred?) “…The patient flinches at the morning rains in May. Her ink contradicts herself… …and her thoughts can’t be trusted.” “…Well, this is why.” He pointed at my brain. I sighed and rest my head against the chilly wall painted a welcoming shade of yellow. The nurse lit branded candles: They reserve lavender for calming the stormier souls— But I blow out the flame smiling, like it’s my birthday. All this time, I’ve been stuck in debates on who’s to blame when the only contestant is me. But finally—finally, Printed on stapled prescription bags— a long, fancy name. Now we can toast with tablets in paper cups— Here’s to finding a common enemy.