I overdosed,
eventually the bottle became empty.
I'm sorry for throwing you around so much,
now you are dented and hollow.
I'll stuff you away in the cubbard,
give you your own space on the shelves.
Until then,
I hope my prescription will read your name another time.
And we can fix each other again.
YOU ARE READING
Eunoia
PoesieBehind every poem is a story too afraid to be told bluntly. . . . I intend to write to make you feel.
