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 betray.”
“…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
with laughters drumming in my rib cage—
All this time,
I’ve been stuck
in debates on who’s to blame
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 an enemy that's not me.
Copyright © Jasmine Tsai | Year Posted 2025
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