Mrs. Mannequin

You turn over and turn out the light,
Lips muffle a “sleep tight,”
An echo of when you
Used to kiss me when you said, “goodnight.”

Now when you wake up in the morning,
You only make one cup of coffee,
And the only words you speak are for the answering machine.

And all day at work I sit and wonder,
Behind the computer,
About what you had meant
When you said, “It won’t get much better.”

Cause when you speak there’s not an answer,
Just a response to my pressure,
Or you answer me with a list of medication you need.

So I drive to the pharmacy,
At one in the morning,
To get the pills you say
You need to take to get you to sleep.

“Take two pills with food,” the label read.
“It’ll help your sadness too,” the doctor said.
But you always prefer a handful instead.

Cause now you’ve become this mannequin,
With lightly blushed and embellished skin;
A plastic sheet of covering
To hide within and feel nothing.