Ativan

There's some riddled youth
in you-
howling into void air,
stumbling over each
fretful
step.

Some wild stage of untempered madness-
entombed in the bottom of that
heavy bottle of Ativan, counting
the seconds between each tablet
peering through a bleary orange window
whispering

"This time will be better."
"This time is different!"

Your heart has diffused hope
from your head-
weighed by honest discretion.

Half a remedy
cannot pardon
a lifetime
of being 
you.

The yellow pricks your eyes
still,
even as the pills file backward

"you" disappears
and what "you" have left behind
will surely follow

The remedy 
just fills the cracks
inside a contortionist's
psyche

Just a squabbled signature
on which you dry your eyes
with torn blue parchment paper

Moments measured by milligrams
dosages,
from a respected dealer

There are no better
cures

Cures
are excuses
and answers
are not solutions

You
are the issue
You
are the source

You are the squallid black mark
on the score card
of a correction-
with no self-regard