i split the pill like
it was the goddamn
atom or something.
 
i was about to scrape
the dust off of the counter
into my hands, to preserve
what i knew as pure, 
to save it for when i needed
to remind myself i was
still there.

the doctor who gave them
to me wasn't really a doctor,
but there was a guy in the place
that would agree with everything
that she said.

and maybe i wanted to believe,
too.

it is so much easier to be
a cynic when you have a
diagnosis to back it up. it
is so much easier to make
them feel guilty when you 
say words like "clinical
depression."

i could always chalk it up to
"i just haven't taken my meds."

i was splitting the atom
and i was remembering
my excuses and how i 
wouldn't be needing them
anymore, how it might be
awhile before i can imagine
something else so brilliant.