My Days Are Numbered

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My moods have been predetermined and prescribed.
Seven tiny compartments measure my days.
Pink and orange match the sunrise
and taste bitter with my coffee.
I chase them with water so they
mellow in my blood, as if water can
render toxic harmless.
Yellow sticks in my throat every day,
stealing my happy before it’s even activated.
White dissolves under my tongue, can’t get in
fast enough, impatient little fucker.
If white is late, I start to itch.
Blue makes me saddest of all.
Without blue the rest are just candy.
And I will never sleep again.
I’m always packing a rainbow
wherever I go.

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