Your Oxy's are worth Thousands

You get your little blue pills
Worth thousands of dollars, you say,
And count them
Over and over again
In a dark room
In a dark car
On your mother’s couch
On your unmade bed
And then….
You spill them all over the floor
And must count them again.  
More missing each time
Less to count, but each becoming
An even more precious commodity
Your lips mottled and dry
With that sticky blue spittle
And your pupils shrink
Tiny, black points
I imagine your soul
Is fleeing
Diminishing through those
Little black points.  
I’m leaving, I say,
You don’t hear me.
I walk out the door feeling  
A demon smile smugly
Burning the skin  
Of my receding back
Through those little black pupils
While carefully eyeing
That diminishing pile
Of little blue pills.