My Days Are Numbered

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 morning,
and steals my happiness before it can shine.
White dissolves under my tongue,
it can’t get in fast enough,
the impatient little fucker.
If white is late, I start to itch.
Blue makes me saddest of all.
Without blue, the rest is just candy,
and I will never sleep again.
I’m always packing a rainbow wherever I go.