A man takes insulin
in the bathroom at work,
rolls up his sleeve
without apology.

No one asks
how long he plans to stay on it.
No one suggests
he try harder.

A woman picks up
her antidepressant
on the way home,
adds it to her routine
like brushing her teeth.

No one calls it a crutch.
No one wonders
if she deserves it.

At the pharmacy counter,
a different silence gathers.

The technician lowers her voice.
The screen turns.

Buprenorphine
handled carefully,
as if it might break
or implicate.

He signs his name
on the digital line
that lingers a moment too long.

Insurance requires
prior authorization.
The system requires
proof.

He has proof.

It lives in the body,
in years arranged
around a single hunger,
in the spaces
where things used to be.

Take as directed,
the label says,
as if direction
has ever been the problem.

As if survival
is not already
a kind of obedience
no one names.

---

Veronica Tucker (she/her) is an emergency medicine and addiction medicine physician, mother of three, and lifelong New Englander. Her writing explores the intersections of medicine, motherhood, memory, and the human experience. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her work appears in ONE ART, The Berlin Literary Review, Rust & Moth, and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook The House as Witness is forthcoming from Quillkeepers Press.

Instagram: @veronicatuckerwrites 
Website: www.veronicatuckerwrites.com