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?