On Being Iron Deficient

by Isabelle S.

I take my iron pills in the morning
the same way I think about you:
one 28mg tablet,
taken without food,
nauseous for an hour afterward.

I swallowed the wrongness of my wrongdoings,
the corner of your bed,
my thank-yous and your lack of regret.

Once, I sat and listened to my loneliness,
and after, nobody had any idea
that I’d been thinking about how you would’ve come
and folded me in your arms—
until it didn’t matter how I’d felt,
or if anybody understood,
or if my loneliness was even real.

I tell people I’ve lost my respect for you,
but when I say that, I mean:
How could you do this to me?
And when I say I no longer trust you,
I mean that when I take my pills,
I can’t stomach breakfast.
I mean that you make me hungry
in a way that contorts itself
until I swallow it whole.

When it goes down,
it sticks to the back of my throat
and burns in my stomach.

In biology class, when I learn about proteins
twisting to move through mucus,
I think of how you were always able
to corkscrew your words,
how thinking of you is synonymous
with uncorking the bottle of something
that will make me forget for a moment.

There was one time
you opened your arms and asked me to come to you.
Years later, I wonder where you’ve gone.

I have a dream, twenty years later,
I see you in a grocery store with your family.
How are you?

I hope you’ve been well.