Ill Will

I'd rather sleep now.
Opiates in my veins.
Powder in my nose.
Death in my brain.

What now?
Supposed to be so serene.
Sorry me, this isn't you;
be an addict; drink some booze.

Ill will appears soon.
Give me nine pills—
sheer thrill and impending doom.
So night can start at noon.

As all my lies confront me,
and the dust settles on my bones,
will your hands hold me
while my stomach purges its grief?

Can these demons be gone?