After the pain when the whiskey is gone
the formaldehyde freezing in my bones
as the catheter drips, my blood’s martini
into the bedpan’s—Code Red, beeping
like a dying alarm clock with no fallen
angels in this room, only interns flipping
through my chart’s pages of a hymnal
and deck of cards humming through my
thorax, a flat line lullaby—Code Red,
after the pain when the whiskey is gone
Rated for Teens(13+)
When the whiskey is gone
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Dear AA,
When the whiskeys gone there’s no point to going on. I think you’ve described the grim world without the amber glow very well. Cheers to hiding a bottle or two. H🌷
Thank you very much. In reality, I very rarely touch the “Widow’s Punch.”
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Incredible write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.