“Please try again later,” 
the webpage serves: 

co-conspirator, 
time thief. 

I refresh the page, 
tap the ouroboros—
self eating self. 

I multitask from bed: 
feet up, head down, 
regretfully horizontal. 

Muzak in the key of No. 
I’ve been on hold nearly an hour, 
waiting for my meds, 
for the pharmacist. 

Enmeshed in the cycle, 
I grip a pen in my teeth 
like a cigarette 
while migraine cleaves 
my spine. 

I keep waiting—
wrapped in a fug 
beneath a thin blanket, 

salty tears cooling on my lips. 

It was just a nibble I took—
a tiny pink pill, iris-small. 
But that’s the catch. 
That’s the hook. 

They call it a sedative-hypnotic—

(true) 

enough to leave me hungover 
through Sunday dinner, 
my tongue still numb. 

Rebecca Simone Schmitz

is a poet, songwriter, and multimedia artist based in Los Angeles. After a career as a frontwoman and musician, and following a series of strokes and years of recovery, she has returned to the page. She shares selected works at I SelfCare So Hard and is currently at work on her debut poetry collection.