Fly High

Sometimes I wonder if
these pills are enough
to keep me here; keep
me safe and grounded.

I worry about the milligram
increase every few months.
"Fifty isn't doing it" they say
"A hundred isn't cutting it."

"Go higher."

And when I return they
explain that I'm not
getting any better, that
this fucking depression
is just who I am.

So I go home and
let razors kiss these
sullen wrists, and
let more pills grace
these worn lips.

That's only a dream
I have though, and
when I explain it to
my psychiatrist, she
hands me another
prescription and says
"Go higher."

Only now I think I know
exactly what she means.