Humans are drugs to me.

Tucked together in a cabinet out of neccessity.

I'm a fool, popping person after person.

Each package labelled with the empty promise of progression.

Hopped up on hallucinogens, reduced to nothing but remnants of what was formerly known as happiness.

Probing through pills, clinging to the slim chance of change but yearning for acceptance.

Overdosing on empty praise tossed out by incompatible individuals then crashing down on the side effects of of their malicious intent.

Desperation to the point where blowing through bottles of medication is the norm.

Feverishly busting through buckets of medicine before allowing each antidote to take effect,

medicinal madness at its core.

In my reality, I'm a patient.

A victim,

torn between wanting to get better or worse.

My health declining with each dose, I build myself up to aid in my fall.

Where do I rest in your cabinet?

I'm not a patient but a poison.

A caustic concoction developed and perscribed by a back alley doctor.

Diagnostic delusion designed to drive you to your grave.

Call an ambulance.

Underdose me.