I Remember Being Real

I Remember Being Real

I remember being real once, I think–
before the pills flattened everything
into a smooth, unbroken surface
where nothing rises and nothing stinks.

There was a version of me who laughed too loud,
who threw things when the rage came down,
who cried at songs
and felt the weather in his bones
and stayed up late
just to hear the quiet of the town.

That version scared them.
So they fixed it.
Smoothed the edges,
filed the teeth,
rewired the circuits
till the whole machine ran underneath
a sedated hum that passes for okay.

I remember being real.
I remember days that hurt
and days that burned so bright
I couldn’t look away.
Now every day’s the same low-watt fluorescent gray.

I used to fight.
Now I comply.
I used to scream.
Now I just sigh.
I used to feel the full catastrophe of being alive–
now I observe it
from behind the glass
of a man who used to thrive.

I remember being real.
I’m not sure what I am now.
But somewhere in the quiet,
I still feel it–
the faintest pulse
of what they couldn’t medicate out.