Imbalance, A Brief History of


2 a.m. is odd

for a doctor’s appointment

but the phallic paintings help

with the anxiety. “He treats famous men,”

was the receptionist excuse

for the schedule and interior.

“You’re in good hands,”

did not assure me.


The door opened,

‘is it my turn?’

Let this grimace

be the first symptom.



I touched the foil

it emerged:

magnificently molded

cleanly cut

smooth on the edges

grainy on top


a surface for safe passage

a match for exclusivity

a dare for lucidity


But before I swallow:

I stop.


Do I deserve this grand

gift of chance, or will I choke?



Go on,

flush me.


That’s your desperate attempt for normalcy?

Remember, that’s half a grand down the drain.

I may have taken every remnant of joy

You used to have. But it is I that gets you

through the door. So go get another

from that orange bottle. No matter

how much you deny it, I am your elixir


for life. But also

a ticket for death.

So why not chug a dozen more?




Over                                     |                           Dose


Once, I drank too much.

Twice? No, thrice

what was prescribed.


I tried my luck

on a fast pass to finality,

a controlled time of death.


Then a doctor’s greeting:

a thin plastic tube

through my nose,

cold charcoal,

down my stomach,

ended up in a glass jar.


What of my tickets?

All to the yellow

trash bin – clinical waste.





The brain is the ignition point,

the stomach – a flask, the blood its fuel,

all conspiring for hormonal fireworks.


Do they not know the mind of a Paperdoll?

One misguided thought, shove, or spark

could send wildfire back to the brain.


It’s a circumferential path.

We always burn

ourselves best.




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