Ain't it poison to know you still care
They're your hired doctor and your hired nurse, putting the meds in your lines when you can't do the injection yourself, something to kill the pain but more precisely kill what's causing the pain, the presence in the pipes you want to let go of, right, and that's why they talk trash when you cater to the pain, bound to their halfway-Hippocratic swears and their needs for insurance. Let the medicine drip when you know it's the poison that works first, before you can get better and eat real food again, not any fake excuse for a meal, and they can hang another bag when this one's done. At least that's what they tell you, dripping.
Not on or about this week's Roxicet or the weekend's water, morphine, Phenergan, contrast, iodine, and whatever else was in me, I just need two metaphors to sedate tonight and your buzzes aren't helping me.
