Merciel

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.