rainbow of meds

in my parents’ hotel room the day after christmas watching 

tv about koalas with chlamydia . wrapped in the fuzzy

red blanket my friend gave me for christmas . drinking

chamomile golden in a glass cup . thinking about the stolen

money in my wallet . grateful i didn’t bring more pills . itchy

from the oxy withdrawl . the beginnings of being cleansed . 

an hour of yoga . countless cups of coffee tea and water . no

alcohol . two cases of pills one for morning one for

afternoon . rainbows of pills . blue and pink and orange and

white . thinking of how to slip the whites in with the others

to get them through airport security . thinking about sammy 

snow back in california and trading all my green for white . 

trying to be present and to be free here with my family . 

grounding myself five things i can see . dad’s blue jeans . the

word ‘lust’ on my book cover . the orange tea packet on the

nightstand . the white plastic macy’s bag in the corner . the 

hotel lamps shaped like mushrooms . four things i can touch . 

the softness of the blanket . the smoothness of this page . the 

warmth of my tea through the glass . the roughness of the sofa

chair . three things i can hear . the tv ad playing . dad’s voice

honey-warm with greek accent . mum’s pen clicking against the

desk . two things i can smell. the cloth of my sweatshirt . 

the dusty air from the heating vent . one thing i can taste . the sweet

honey flavor of the chamomile . trying to stay present enough

in my body to feel myself breathe . to read my book . to if just

for today be alive . it’s 2pm . i pull out my afternoon pill case .

—December 2021, Seattle, WA