I understand that yesterday was steep; so is today, so will tomorrow be.
I understand the pills you were prescribed are not easy to swallow.
A stranger’s hand stretches across the counter and hands you your new label.
I understand the taste of defect dissolves on your tongue once a day.
Swallowed with a full glass of water, choking down shame for what is out of your control—
but remember to consume food with it, otherwise you might feel nauseous.
I understand that you have not shed a tear in weeks—
the absence of emotions and the intermittent numbness— is it a sign that you are freezing to death or does it mean you are finally a pain-free being?
I understand you no longer count sheep in your dreams or count calories at dinner time or count on your friends to understand where you are today and where you’ve been.
This morning you counted in only milligrams.