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.