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You scream out
in an ochre mist
and touch the wall
with fiery fingers,
nerve endings begin
their throbbing call
and you count it down:
“Vicodin is candy
sugar in the stick,”
as you plead for more
“Morphine tingles
Motrin makes me sick.”
Darkness is a vision
when light is a blade
turning deep inside
and the Fetinol fades
just as soon as you feel
the Neurotin subside.
Touch is needles,
fingers pierce the skin
and each caress is rabid
tearing at your soul
as you begin the mantra
moaning, “Dilaudid,
dilaudid, dilaudid.”
Insipidly quick in IV
but the pill will last:
chaos becomes aplomb,
the scream suddenly silent
and the blade withdrawn
in, but a momentary, calm.


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