Every other week, there's a room,
small, and supposedly comforting.
I can never remember the color of the walls,
or the size of the sofa.
All I ever see,
is the bookshelf in front of me,
and the window to my right,
blinds slightly closed.
These are the places I stare at
every time.
I speak quietly, unsure, confused,
afraid to make eye contact
with the woman at her desk,
short, curious, gentle.
I can feel her dissecting me.
Every time she pauses,
or looks up at the ceiling,
the knife goes in deeper,
opening me up for examination.
" Medication is a tool, not magical fairy dust."
Something she has reminded me here and there.
As if I didn't already know.
As if I even want to hear it.
The simple thought of knowing,
that I might never recover,
always causes something to die in me,
just a little more than the last time.
Maybe hope?
Maybe freedom?
Two words that have always lacked in my life.
A pill won't save me,
won't make every mental dysfunction disappear.
The voice will still be there,
every hour of the day,
intrusive and demanding, red hot with rage,
taking more control over me by the second.
50, 60, 70 percent of me, 80 90 percent.
The anxiety will still be there,
bubbling up in my blood,
trembling in my hands,
causing the simplest decision,
to break my back,
make the world fall down on me.
And the ache will still be there,
the empty hole growing inside of me,
taking a bigger part of me,
every time somebody points a dirty finger,
every time I realize that nobody sees the mask
plastered onto my face every morning.
Thick and cakey, screaming,
"I'm happy, I'm whole, I'm strong."
Medication is just a tool,
like the little room
with the bookshelf and the window.
Something to help me tolerate the monster,
deadly, yet underestimated,
Swelling up inside of me.
Nothing can save me.
Advice would be appreciated! I'm very unsure about this.
Flow here as requested by you. 
