She left my medicine on the kitchen table.

She left my medicine in the same packaging that she bought it in.

The same packaging that everyone outside touched.

Maybe they sneezed on it.

Maybe they coughed on it.

Maybe they spoke over it.

Maybe they didn’t wash their hands when they came 

from the toilet before touching it.

She left my medicine on the table.

She left my medicine on the table next to another packet.

Maybe they sneezed on it.

Maybe they coughed on it.

Maybe they spoke over it.

Maybe they didn’t wash their hands when they came 

from the toilet before touching it.

I have to stretch over the table to get my medicine.

I have to stretch over the other packet on the table to get my medicine.

I have to stretch over their coughing. 

I have to stretch over their sneezing. 

I have to stretch over their talking. 

I have to stretch over their touching. 

Maybe I shouldn’t take my medicine. 

Maybe I should just wait.

Maybe.

Shiksha Dheda is a South African of Indian descent. She uses poetry(mostly) to express her internal and external struggles and journeys, inclusive of her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures. Mostly, however, she writes in the hopes that someday, someone will see her as she is; an incomplete poem. @ShikshaWrites

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