The Magic Pill
I left the house at night,
before I felt too much.
I couldn’t stay inside
where I had to keep it shut.
A shadow stood ahead,
not quite a man or face.
Just a presence waiting there,
outside of time and space.
It held out something small,
a pill of quiet white.
No warning, no condition,
just an end in sight.
A Magic Pill, it said,
to cut him from my mind.
No dreams where I wake up
still reaching out behind.
No more that midnight pull,
no more the looping pain.
No more his name returning
in my memory again.
I turned it in my hand,
like I might choose or run.
One part of me still clung,
one part said it was done.
The night didn’t push me,
it only let me be.
Like it had seen me bleeding,
And knew I needed peace.
So I chose the silence,
over what I knew.
Over the constant ache
of always missing you.
I took it where I stood,
no prayer, no final sound.
Just one small shift inside
like something came unbound.
At first, you disappeared,
not slow, but clean and fast.
Like every memory of you,
was never made to last.
No more your voice at night,
no more your face in dreams.
No more the endless weight
of what remembering means.
It felt like freedom first,
like air I’d never known.
Like I could finally stand
completely on my own.
The ache was gone from me,
the missing and the need.
But something in that space
went quiet underneath.
Now I move through the days,
no you left in my head.
No pain to pull me back,
no words left unsaid.
And I am not undone,
I am not torn apart.
I took it knowing fully
it would take my heart.
Not regret, not remorse,
not something I deny—
just the clean and quiet truth
that you were erased inside.