Time drudges along, like a heroin trip,
Into a dark empty abyss;
Empty pill bottles on the counter,
My memories are as insignificant as
The residue next to the pill crusher.
My skull is an hourglass
Which has cracked, and the sand spilled out.
There isn’t much left there now
And I’m happy for that,
Because even when you’re clean
Time can’t repair the damage
Wreaked upon your insides.
Followed by the neglect for self-care
During that downwards spiral into
Clinical depression,
Wherein your muscles atrophied.
It is a slow death,
This one.
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