Thorazine.

A poem about the effects of Thorazine, a typical antipsychotic.

Sitting there incased in its childproofed bottle.

Which any child could open, just maybe not the one in question.

Not because of a physical inability, but a mental one.

A circle, divided in half. Why you can’t play outside with the other children.

Why you don’t go out for recess but play inside with a bare footed girl in a white dress.

A girl with hair the color of asphalt, whose smile is as bright as the yellow stripes across it.

A girl who, like the road she embodies, you look both ways before crossing.

She’ll go away for a minute if you swallow the moon.

A pill.