Dear Xanax,

You linger around places I'm familiar with: bathroom stalls, party tables, back seats of cars, and through the tunnel of dollar bills.

Apparently we have mutual friends; you're familiar with family members and acquaintances of mine.

We share two best friends: anxiety and depression.
I’ve never met you before, but I hate you.

You’re selfish.
You’re demanding.
You’re manipulating.
You’re so easy; you’re so sleazy.
You stand proudly with wide-open arms and a sickening grin, waiting to pounce on weak prey.

I hate the way you’ve corrupted those close to me.

I hate the way your presence consumes the souls of innocent people in such a negative way.

I see the way you romantically sweep people of their feet for a temporary time, singing them a lullaby to sleep.

I see the way those same people gradually slur their words, whose heads fall forward at your beckoning call.

I see the way you cause domestic violence.

I see the way you trap a person, robbing them of their ability to recall memories under your influence.

I see the way you tear families apart. Blood becomes the last option; you’re bumped to the top of the list.

There is no such thing as “friends” anymore. Your company is overwhelmingly suspect, pushing away anyone with good intentions.

I loath over the way you associate yourself with alcohol, making matters all the worse.
People obsess over you; they die over you.

You feed off of the idea of bone thin, pale-faced, naive souls...

Doctors use and abuse you to manipulate others; who’s the victim here?
You’re under the impression that you’re the solution to a reoccurring problem. The reality is, you are the problem.

I despise those dark and deep circles you leave under the eyes of so many pretty faces, trademarking those you've corrupted.

My stomach fills with twisted knots at the sound of your name, Xanax.

I hope from the bottom of my heart that one day you won’t exist anymore in this world that will greatly thrive without you.