Self-medicating

When I was a child,
I would fall sick a lot.
My father would hoist me up
On the kitchen sink
Which I liked,
And push pills
the size of matchboxes
down my gullet
Which I did not, so much.
He said they would make me better.
It used to hurt.

When I was older,
I would wrap pills in bread
and swallow them whole
For practice
So I would avoid his fingers
wiggling, like a spiny fish
in my throat.

These days I swallow pills
all the time,
On my own.
They are not forced down
from my father
They are without bread
And they do not make me better.

They are forced down
Nonetheless
They hurt more than the ones
I remember, from the kitchen sink.