Two weeks ago

You had your antidepressant dosage upped.

You looked into my eyes and told me

We'd be leaving soon if you couldn't take anymore.

Two weeks later,

and the number of pills in your hand each morning has decreased.

But the stark contrast of the clinically diagnosed rainbow of safe pastels

And the weathered tan of your palm

Is still a staple of your days.

The slight smell of something I've coined "hospital breath"

Lingers in the lugs of our home,

And the glaring transparent orange of the pharmacy bottles almost blend into the beige walls,

Which we've decided were not as constricting as you once believed.

Maybe lack of belief is the problem.

Maybe it's too much of it.

I live almost shackled,

Free enough to leave, but not free enough to roam.

Exploration is a luxury reserved for the brave.

Two weeks ago and two weeks later feel like the exact same moment,

Stitched together with red string

Into a patchwork of what the next year will feel like:

Pressure, stones against my chest, and bound hands.

I can't reach out to tell you that those little security blankets

Are the only string holding you up.

But I am trying my hardest to pull you in from the tide.

Two weeks ago, you felt it too,

Now a sea of safe colors and security

That keeps the key from your hands, 

Just out of the way of the brush of your fingertips

So you brush your fingers against the nape of my neck

And the security slides down your throat,

And we stay.