I used to, often, self-medicate. I take it a day at a time. The pressure comes quicker, builds up behind brown eyes, and I just sit here and let you sympathise. A doctor never said, no, not in so many words. That the blood will come quicker as you get older, that the pain will not ease as you grow. Age twenty and you can’t even walk down the stairs alone. Spin, spin, self-medicate a little more. In bed or by the side of the road, it will continue. Retail or liquid therapy, starve until you can’t recognise me. When the room became a forest, I escaped to the river. When my house became a prison, I drove 200 miles. I awake only to appreciate going back to sleep. Death is usually faster, decay is usually less welcome. Six weeks, pull yourself together in six weeks.
Your life in the balance, dependent on how well you self-medicate.


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