A split pill in a shot glass every other night


imagesSwinging open the cabinet door,

tired on the nights it’s empty,

still annoyed on the night’s it’s not.


A twitch, a shake, tension.


A task, another tired tendril pulling me down.


I’d stop if I could.

It’d be worse if I did.


What’s worse –

The ailment or the cure?


An oblong blue missile and its snapped companion.

One and a half ovals.


Tiny pale packages with the ability to contain my fears.

And yet, they dissolve and disperse throughout my body.


Is the volume the same – just not in a concentrated form?

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1 Comment

  1. sry do you speak german



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