We are the pills-as-candy
kids.  The screwed up,
bad-line-from-a-bad-song
generation.  We prescribe ourselves
Prozac, Zoloft, Aterol, anything.
We become our own rock ‘n roll nurses,
shooting up drugs into our scalps,
only this time, Johnny, it’s not
heroin.  No side effects like that;
more subtle, more addictive, more cool.
We flaunt our pills.  We wave them
in the air like banners, like the scars
on our arms, flaunting our self-
mutilation.  Blood pouring down our
cheeks, darling, believe me I know
what it feels like; you’re not alone.
Saying things like that is pointless.
It only feels like it’s not a lie.

Drugs for entertainment is not
enough.  Marijuana is not rebellion,
it’s normalcy.  We get drunk in
the bathroom during lunch, swearing
it’s iced tea, lying.  Saying that it
doesn’t taste like nail polish remover,
saying we enjoy it, saying we’re not
too scared to get drunk.  We’re not
scared of anything, not addiction,
not death, not rape.  We are not the
lost boys lost girls lost anything.  
We are not lost, we are merely
confused, merely shoved in the
wrong direction by people who
think they’re doing us a favor.

And when I see inflamed lines
on her arms, scars that weren’t
there yesterday or the day before
and she tells me that they’ve
upped the dosage, stretching deeply,
arms reaching the sky, stomach
waving at the sun saying, yes
I’m here, yes I am, hello,
how are you?  There are only
eight more, maybe less if she
squandered any before now and
I feel something akin to pity
or maybe some deeper, more
primal emotion, something like anger
as I stare at red lines, raised bumps
that she traces with her lips and
fingertips when the boy is looking.
We have lost count of the drugs she is
taking, the number of pills she pops
during breakfast, lunch, dinner, yanking
off the top of the bottle, swallowing
deeply, telling us to look, daring us to see
the measures she has gone through to make
us think she’s different, make us think
we have to worry about her.  I will not
lose sleep over red lines or pills.