Prozac made it hard to rise
from bed most days. I didn’t want to die.
I didn’t want to wake. I lost my pick-me-up
at the pharmacy. I couldn’t find my way
back home, so I stayed behind
and stared at walls like 3D posters,
but the patterns had no depth.
I only saw black-and-white text
I could read, but it made no sense
why I’d age fifty years instead
of trying to surf the tempests.
Either way, I’d end up dead,
either drowning in my own storm
or shriveling in a desert sun.