I can not take these pills,
shove them into me
and wait for them to
take affect.
These little pink pills,
harmless looking candy dots
that can make a woman
change.
Make a woman stop doing
what a woman
does.
The doctors tell me it is, “for the best.”
But they do not care about the acne,
nausea, migraines,
or endless thoughts
raging out of control.
They do not spend their nights with me.
Or watch
my legs ache
during the night as if being remotely controlled
by some dimpled toddler.
They do not sit across the breakfast table from me
witnessing
moods that change
with the rise and fall of the tide,
or with the spill of a glass of juice.
No,
they are back in their offices,
back in their homes,
out on their decks,
eating shellfish,
with Chardonnay,
while I am here,
alone.
Is this their only solution?
Of course not.
They have other
“alternatives”.
Like ripping out a part of me,
and leaving me forever altered,
like some defaced statue in a public square
someone scrawled graffiti over in the dark.
