Xanax in my drawer.
Correctly prescribed, yet unwanted.
Waits for me in a childproof container.
The moon, through my window panes, illuminates my room.
Aside from the most geometric corners of blackness.
My anxiety pains through my dreams.
Prompting me to stay awake.
The moonlight bounces off my nightstand drawer's brass handle.
Where the Xanax rests.
Where I could rest.
No pleasure in falling asleep.
When the only way possible is to stumble into it.
High and depraved.
One pill doesn't work, only two.
And I'm off to the moon.
Finally asleep, but not in control.
There's a reason we haven't gone back.