the cough syrup’s gone bad and snuck out of the medicine cabinet

sometime around midnight last night.

Don’t ask me how I know.

I can see it—

you’re itching and the paisley curtains your mother got

for your last birthday because she swore they would look good

(spoiler alert: they’re godawful) are on inside out and there are

scratch marks on your legs from where you tried to dig the silver change

out from beneath the couch cushions of your skin

the other day, you licked the last iceberg on earth and a shard of

“I’m scared” slipped off your tongue before you could catch it

the cat snatched the flesh of your lip and ran away

and dropped it down the open throat of a New York City manhole

if it wouldn’t cost you an arm and a leg and your favorite stack of tarot cards

I would take you to the doctor’s office

if you’re lucky, they would maybe give you an x-ray and hand you a new bottle of cough syrup

and a cherry lollipop that folds like potato skins between your indigo nails

they would tell you to stop itching and there is no cure for an infected body

they would knit you a babydoll’s scarf

they would hand you a fake ID

keep it handy; you’re going to need it.