There’s an herb, drug, machine for everything that needs help.
But what about the moment I need help breathing during your questions?

The feeling rising from my knees, to my heart, which leaves me distraught with an internal monologue that never seems to end. What do I do when my brain is overlapping, and can’t listen to you while I’m under burning lights?
 

What do I do to make myself seem socially capable when the header for my playbill reads “I can’t go on.”
 

I need to follow the steps to a conversation, but I realize I’ve failed as you look at my blank face. You’ll start to question whether I’ve remembered my script or if I’ll need to ask for my line.

There’s an herb, drug, machine for everything that needs help.
My lips are my herbs, my drug is my mind, and my body is a machine.
These work together to finally force me to answer you, even if the only questions I heard were from myself.