With capsules in my palms each night,
Eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I’m the queen of this condition.
I’m an expert on making the trip
And now they say I’m an addict.
Now they ask why.
Don’t they know that I promised to die!
I’m keeping in practice.
I’m merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
Every color and as good as sour balls.
I’m on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
It has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
Blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
Hauled away by the pink, the orange,
The green and the white goodnights.
I’m becoming something of a chemical
Has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It’s a kind of marriage.
It’s a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
To kill myself in small amounts,
An innocuous occupation.
Actually I’m hung up on it.
But remember I don’t make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
And I don’t stand there in my winding sheet.
I’m a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
Eating my eight loaves in a row
And in a certain order as in
The laying on of hands
Or the black sacrament.
It’s a ceremony
But like any other sport
It’s full of rules.
It’s like a musical tennis match where
My mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
Elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
With two pink, two orange,
Two green, two white goodnights.
Now I’m borrowed.
Now I’m numb.