I planted pills in the garden and watched them sprout. It was growing season. Birds came and ate the leaves and flew off sideways, sedated. My tongue went dry. The truth was, I missed my arrogance: believing that the saints smiled when no one was looking: believing I could be the sun that never slept. But here we are. The pills grew plants with sweet flowers. Birds plucked them off one by one: the birds sang backwards: the birds put their heads in fountains to cool off. I didn’t miss the pills. I was a little sick. Maybe I didn’t want to be seventeen again. Maybe I just wanted to fit into my graduation dress. It’s not an addiction if you’ve got a prescription. The birds laid eggs that didn’t hatch. The yolks hardened from inside out. My head felt clearer. They kept sending me pills. I was up to my old tricks. Hunger visited infrequently. The nerves hammered my window every night. Here’s the deal—I wanted to get back to basics. I wanted to rough it old school. I wanted to see what would happen. Racoons and squirrels got into the flowers, too. Foxes. Stray cats, possibly feral. They’ve mellowed out. They lay around and watch clouds in the afternoon. My trashcans don’t get knocked over anymore. People on the news talk about invasive species. Pill plants grow on the edge of the highway. Pill plants grow in neighborhood parks. I am dizzy often. Itchy, but not in the physical sense. The doctor looks at me funny when I describe it. Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too, I say. It’s in the air: we breathe it like pollen: it climbs through our ears: is it possible for a heart to tick counterclockwise?

– Sophie Hoss