Erotic Despair

It begins in the synapses. Jesus, does it ever. First half a pill, and then a whole one, and I am floating in a twilight I remember from my early 20s of sad holidays with a boy who I loved and who hurt me, pills and a rumpled bed and drawn blinds and a flashing blue television.

Now, this time, the pills are to quell my anxiety and hopefully, in turn, an immune system that lashes out indiscriminately, eating away the bone in my pelvis. There’s not supposed to be a gap there, the doctor says, pointing to the blackness…