My portrait…is a Popsicle beginning to melt.

Even if left untouched on a dusty shelf.

If  my  delusional image were turned and stared…pitifully.

My only response would be what it has always been,

“Never feel sorry for me.”

I came here to this crossroad…willingly.

The pain is the same as it had been before pills came along.

And, though I swallowed…stubbornly,

a team of high authority…felt they knew my psyche…better than me.

I have become a medical casualty.