Tag Archives: prescription

The Taste Of Bad Medicine

Drag my hand behind you
Like a chain behind a truck
Sparks over your carpet while
I chase you through the darkness
Somebody’s supposed to fall in love
But nobody even calls; somebody’s supposed to…

~*~

If I held the gun that made your insides feel worse

Tell me, is it still a blessing or have I become your curse?

Your marionette body makes me fall apart again

After I’ve taken my prescriptions and adjusted my skin

.

I’m too selfish to taste all these abrasive chemicals

Forming newer lies at the tip of my pale purple tongue

So won’t you take them away and shatter up these brick walls

That’s keeping my sanity in, just another emergency man

.

In the bedroom floor where our breaths feel like the new testament

My tell-tale heart is still writhing and clawing desperately at the cement

You buried me in black and white, but all I could see is an endless blue

Starving for some modesty like it’s some unheard modern-day virtue

.

So break me away, I’m responsible for this reckless self-medication

Just to sleep and dream a little longer, just to find something to hold on

Because all I hear is anguished screaming from the other side of that door

And I could only listen so much to this overdose before I could take no more

.

If I held all the pills that made your insides feel worse

Tell me, am I your blessing or do I have to call up a hearse?

Your puppeted agony makes me fall apart, and then

I’ll take two and pass out just so I could call you in the morning.

~*~

Tear this place apart
Until you find me hiding, silently I wait
You’ll be excited just to see me someday
Everything’s okay…

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Placebo

These pills are contumelious and tasteless. I can sense the verbatim in each weighted gold, the incorrigible condition of convalescing, the asinine arrogance of it all that flows ever so hotly and heavily, like boiling lead poured down my veins, as I swallow quickly before the unpleasant bitter taste invades my tongue, hard tablets travelling down my throat imperceptibly. It somehow catches midpoint and I cough tentatively, droplets of rusty starched blood staining my silk white gloves. But, I think, it’s only or three drops and a dash of wasted chloride, so never mind that. Grimacing, my eyes narrow into thin slits at the minuscule writing on the sterile label, and I read the dictated instructions ever so carefully—like it even mattered in the slightest—as I shook more of the little pink chalky medical sedition out of its orange prescription bottles, the container vivid and gruesomely bright, tangerine teeth smiling at me as if to say “Your hair is falling out, your organs and viscera are liquefying at an alarming rate that you might as well shit it out, you’ve got a terminal ailment and necrosis is your best friend, it’s good, everything’s okay!”. It continues jeering and mocking and pointing fingers against me silently while simultaneously continuing its purpose of surreptitiously patching and stitching up internally what’s already disintegrated into a causeless irreparable degeneration. I glance at the acerbic prescription bottle, then back at the cherry cheeked cherubic lifesavers resting taciturn in my hand. Letting my irrational dignity get the best of me and sighing in a ludicrous extravagance, I take a hesitant drink of water, room temperature and straight from the tap, and throw the snickering pills away resolutely. They fall somewhere on the pristine linoleum floor with a protesting clatter, indignant and still stabbing invisible excoriations behind my back. I don’t care. This affluent injury, this affirmative debilitation, this coldhearted affliction is futile, I may as well be swallowing coins for all the good that it’s done me. It’s nothing but a feel-good propaganda that manages to make me feel worse; I may as well be choking on my own false hope.

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