It's completley dark out,
my desk only iluminated by a harsh overhead light,
my hands become less steady as I glance at the mess on my desk
I hate needles.

The soundtrack to an old movie I never watched plays quietly from my laptop,
a desperate attempt to calm my nerves as I grab the little vial
I hate needles.

The tigger bandaid rests upon my desk,
I fight to keep my mind empty as I trade one guage for another,
the cartoon serving as a cheerful reminder of what is soon to come
I hate needles.

A container of sharps sits on my dessk,
surrounded by dried flowers, this too shall pass repeating endlessly in my mind,
I slowly push it into my skin as a sharp pain makes itself known in my thigh
I hate needles.

The song changes to a ballad I have heard many times before,
the blood and the medicine dripping from my thigh,
an internal debate of if the bandaid will stick at this rate,
I hate needles

I'll try to sleep on by back that night,
a desperate attempt to avoid pressure on my leg,
fully aware that the ache tommorow will always stay the same.
I hate needles.