The bottles fall to the floor in pairs,
anti-depressants are a waste of your welfare
and therapy is another quack
to flare up buried sorrows.
Empty,
oh, I see,
this time, the world has turned against me,
I walk in shame
afraid someone might recognize me
as another lame flack.
I whisper in shadows
scared that maybe one day
my voice might be mistaken for a fly
learning to communicate in Japanese.
I seize every opportunity to flee
and be free, but still,
therapy calls for me next week.
This was written by our contributing writer, Luna Martha.
Image Source: Pexels, Mathias Reding
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