Counting Pills, Counting Hours
I’m counting pills
and counting hours
terrified of both
running out
Measuring the day
in aches and limits
in whispers
and in doubt
Alarm goes off before the sunrise
bones already stabbing
like they’re late
Back locked up
like rusted hinges
that never quite cooperate
I roll out of that cheap mattress
in three careful ugly moves
every step a small negotiation
with a body that no longer proves
Orange bottle on the counter
like a tiny plastic god of pain
label all in capital letters
warning me
what’s left of my reign
Two pills for the morning
maybe one at lunch
if I don’t break
doctor says “stretch it if you can”
like I’m not already wide awake
Punch in at the warehouse door
smile stapled on my face
supervisor sees a “good worker”
never sees the brace
I lift what I shouldn’t lift
twist the way my spine hates most
play human forklift all day long
while my nerves turn into wire
Break room talk is weekend plans
and movies they want to see
mine is doing quiet math
on how much pain is left for me
Pharmacy text says “refill ready”
five long days from now
but this bottle’s getting lighter
in my trembling sweating palm
somehow
I could take that extra tablet
and buy one hour where I can breathe
or save it for the shift
when even walking feels like teeth
Every capsule feels like currency
someone slipped into my hand
spend it now for short relief
or save it for when I barely stand
Doctor taps a tablet screen
and says “your scan’s not that extreme”
talks about “lifestyle adjustments”
like this is some shared dream
He’s never held a box at dawn
with lightning running through his hips
never watched his own hand shake
trying not to drop his chips
Insurance clerk on speaker
says “you’ve hit your monthly cap”
like my nerves should check the calendar
before they start to snap
End of the week
I limp back home
with my last two doses left
Hands still buzzing
from a day that felt
like legalized theft
I crack the cap
and tell myself
“tonight you take just one”
Let the other sit
till the next workday
firing line has begun
Swallow down that bitter chalk
stretch out on the couch
and wait
for that slow soft edge to rise
and trim the corners of my state
They say “you’re strong to keep on going”
but strength is not the word
it’s more like frightened stubbornness
that no one’s really heard
One day I want more
than bottles and appointments
on the wall
Want a job that doesn’t harvest
every joint until they fall
Till then it’s me
and these small circles
measured out in doses tight
Counting pills
counting hours
dragging this hurt
through one more night