Perhaps prudent to catalog actual worries:
I once again have gut problems and no health insurance; have picked up
Aderall, nicotine.
Im drinking wine.
Im drinking london fog.
Im cold and turning on the great
machine that lives inside: her razor
eyes befalling every slight, and im
lined with all her favorite drugs:
confusion,
apathy,
NDE,
whatever “pick your poison” poison
sat on the glass at dawn.

a diary of cayenne pepper, cacophony,
Hellebore and I chant her name

  Circe

Im getting what I gave.

“Poison”