Crushed by loneliness, but at least the bottle won’t ever leave me. Won’t ever disappoint. It shall never hurt me, never make me cry.
The bottle, my friend and lover. Sister and brother. My confidante, my colleague and therapist. Doctor of madness.
Tell me doctor, what’s my diagnonsense? What’s the pill, the bullet in the brain, the arrow shot at the heart. Can you cure my disease?
Send me down the river Styx. Floating on the lies you force fed me. I can’t seem to quite understand, you’re speaking in tongues.
Riddle me this, what’s the fix? Tell me doctor please, what’s the cure and the what is the disease? Am I infectious? Will I bleed? Terminal?
Give it to me straight doctor. It’s cancer isn’t it? Cancer of my soul, eating away the very fabric of my being, killing me from inside out.
It’s ok, doctor. I’ve come to terms, with my terminal. I’ve kissed goodbye to my life my loved ones. All that’s left, is quickening the pace
I don’t wish to linger, turn off my life support. And so I’ll poison myself and aide the very disease that seeks to kill me.
I’ll be my own hit man.
(C) Eleanor Smith 2013