Sertraline and Me

My doctor gave me zoloft once to treat my poor sick head. He said now you can really live and think and breath instead of spending hours writing sonnets about Russia and Japan and all the million other loves that lay in foreign lands that I used to picture waiting languidly on autumn steps. Take daily a few weeks, and try not to think of death – my doctor whistled as I walked out, happy rattles in my hand. Maybe there’s no slant-eyed lovers and no miles and miles of sand stretching out in all directions under unforgiven sighs. Maybe Russia and Japan will never be part of my life and all these girls are only windmills, made with blueprints, built with wood. It is subtle, but the sertraline does not make me feel good. It only makes me unresponsive, dams the whole river of sonnets and leaves me dumb and unresponsive as the Japanese girls scream “Michael please don’t forget me!” And my Russian lovers shriek, I thought you would select me to write your strange 14 line poems about how houses become homes and how you found me after searching all places high and low. I don’t even want to fuck.

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~ by perfectionatrix on February 3, 2010.

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