The Pill

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.