"The little white pills talk to me. I hear their clicking chatter in my pocket, their humdrum rattle of politicians from 1978 and what they ate for dinner at age 14 on a Tuesday. The droning clackclatter of those white pills is enough to make you want to throw them away, but the brown pills, oh, those pills remind you that you need them all. The bottle has a smell, somewhere between a faint scent of rot and a dentist’s office. You take the brown pills to get up, to function, and they remind you that every day doesn’t have to feel like your fingers in an electrical socket. And the little white pills. Littllllle white pilllllllllllls. Litt.tle.W…hite.p.i.Ll.s. Those pills remind you why you hate and love the pills. One day, you reach in with wet fingers and the pills stick to you and dissolve and the smell becomes overpowering. And they stick to you with impressive strength. You start chewing at them, trying to remove them from your skin, and with persistence, luck, and a little bit of skin, you get the pills off your fingers and into your mouth and there they crumble into a bitter goop. You contemplate it. It is bitter and beyond bitter. And the smell. You look up into a mirror, pink fingers, a bloody mouth and white splatter looks back at you. Your eyes are dark and hollow. You put on a hoodie and get on the bus, half waving goodbyes. The vomiting starts when you get to school, and you might have let it slip that you took some pills. Little pills. They were easy to take, but they can’t hear you over the oxygen mask. It’s time for charcoal they say, and they watch you, professionally worried but personally annoyed at another hysterical suicide attempt from some dumb white girl who doesn’t really know what suffering is because they’ve seen real suffering. The vomiting doesn’t stop, even for charcoal, and you drink and purge accidentally. But they say charcoal is good for the skin, though you didn’t notice any improvements. They put you in with sick children and you cry at prenatal IVs. The pills have been silent. Maybe your wet fingers and the subsequent pill devouring holocaust quieted them. When you leave the children, you go to a place where you can get pudding out of the fridge and wear your flannel shirts and nobody much bothers you, until you meet the next bottle, but the blue pills sing."

- Jazmin Lee from the Find Your Words of Traitors page on Facebook.

2 years ago 1 note