dont write under the influence

Dr. Asclepius called me;
he told me i'm bipolar
(i still say it's luxuria)

My prescription?
Fucking medicine.
Take two pills:
Doctor's Orders
(as if anyone actually
obeys those, anyway)

Take another pill.
One for each time
you looked at me,
then two more if
i had looked back.

i'll take one more for that time you
branded fake <3's on my forehead
and another because your smile burns.
ten more for every mistake in my gums,
another six because i forgot dental floss,
four more because i still don't love you,
then twenty-six more because i just lied.

(another two just in case;
we can never be too safe)

add them up and our equation becomes: eight empty bottles of antidepressants + seven dozen empty bottles of Bacardi - nine pints of Blood in my kitchen sink. = one hell of a talk with your neighbors.

Note to Self:

If our hipbones bump,
take a provocative pill.
If our ringtones crash,
take seven more pills.
If you understand this,
take an alluring dosage,
and call yourself in the
mo(u)rning, to make sure
we're still alive, because
there's a chance we won't

we ignored the warnings:
Do not mix with alcohol;
do not operate machinery
or drunk-dial your lovers.

side effects may include
(but are not limited to)
multiple personalities,
outbursts of psychosis,
myocardial infarctions,
and kidney failure

Lesson learned:
don't drink and
daydream.  And
never again will

i,
shall take the recommended
amount of colored-capsules,
50,000 because my pharmacist is a bitch
and eighteen bottles because i do(es)n't
deserve to be capitalized; not unlike 'u'

i'm popping pills like there's no tomorrow,
but if you think about it, tomorrow's fake.
we're living separately in one long day;
in that case, take another fucking bottle,
and alleviate this pain–
one milligram at a time.