Quitting Her

I’m tired of her shit.

Tired of her anger

Her lackadaisical nature.

I’m tired of her grief

And the lack thereof,

Her inability to breathe

Under an economy so bleak.

No simple curtail is in order,

She’ll rely on prompt compression

For decompression.

Her serotonin, soon lonesome

Finding notions of emotions,

Once flowing.

So goodbye,

Zoloft.

Good riddance,

Buspar.

Fuck off,

Xanax.

She’s got this.

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