A split pill in a shot glass every other night

Swinging 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?