By Zara Holderman ’14

A cup of water sits,

Idly awaiting my

Predictable grip

White, smooth, oval,

I calmly caress the pills,

Deciding how many to take today

I put a few in my mouth,

Take a drink,

And wince as I swallow

I study my reflection

Staring back at me

On the oven front

I close my eyes, listening to the

Gentle hum of the refrigerator that reminds me

Of the times past, so similar to now

I open my eyes to a world

Blurrier than before,

Hardly recognizable

Only the cup of water

Remains lucid on the floor before me

Short, red, plastic cup

The sound of the refrigerator

Becomes muffled

And my vision blurs

Wrapped in a pharmaceutical cocoon

That envelops my body

For hours to come.