Leave Me At Boston

I love how you made me swallow the poison and called it Medicine. How you handed me every rumor, every ugly word, every version of myself I did not choose, and expected me to nod like an obedient dog. " Yes, you are right. This poison must be good for me," What was I supposed to do? No one truly believed me. No one truly understood me. So I sat there with my Moscow mule, laughing as the world had just told the funniest joke, one hand around the glass, the other holding onto the last piece of myself I had left.