A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

She said it would help the pain. I’d only heard
it used for anxiety or sleep, and shouldn’t I be scared
of addiction? But she said it also worked
as a muscle relaxant that might lessen the cramps,
and by this stage I’m more than a little desperate.

Take it before bed, at least the first time. It will make 
you very drowsy.

No one warns me about paradoxical reactions. 
And that’s how I find myself here, jittery
on the laz-e-boy in the dark of night. It’s not
just that I’m not drowsy: I’m the polar opposite. 
I’ve never been this awake, this aware, this anxious, 
nor even this fidgety (and that’s saying something,
given my yet-to-be-diagnosed ADHD).  

I thought benzodiazepines were meant to help
with mental health issues, but tonight I hallucinate
for the first (oh, and please, I beg you, last) time.
Time stretches, and the seven hours of relative darkness 
are an eternity during which spiders and elephants
crawl out of the ceiling. The absorbable sutures
that tether me to reality inform me that what I see
cannot possibly be real, but I live out this eternal night 
in fear that it just may be.

The haemorrhage between my legs continues,
overflowing onto the cushion beneath, 
as the creatures from another plane descend upon me, 
never quite reaching their destination, and the floor seems
to tip away to some other plane again that I’d be willing
to visit at this point.

What’s that you’re asking? The pain?
Excruciating still.