Uninvited

Some mornings a single word repeats
until the syllables detach from their meaning entirely,
a siren stuck on a frequency only you can hear
while your boots feel like they're cast in concrete.

Your palm is sweaty enough that the yellow dye
from the pills bleeds into your lifeline.
You dump them back into the bottle just to click
the childproof cap three times. If it doesn't click,
the whole house feels like it's tilting.

The voice inside your head sounds exactly like your own,
but it’s broadcasting from a room you aren't allowed to enter.
It reminds you of the syllables you practiced saying
to your mother so your jaw wouldn't shake.

The barcode scanner at the register is too loud.
The man ahead of you is buying milk and you are suddenly
sweating through your shirt, your ribs slamming
like a bird in a chimney, while everyone else
calmly counts out their thoughts.

The orange medicine cylinders on the nightstand
don't look like a breakthrough; they look like a chore.
A daily negotiation between the water in the tap
and the chemistry in your blood.
You don't look in the mirror to check for a dawn.
You just put your socks on and tie the laces tight.