False Hope 
by MFrostDelaney 

She reads all day on weekends, keeping track 
of football games that interest her, and sips 
her ginger ale, her wine, although they lack 
ability to quench her need. Her lips 
press tight. Her tongue, her mind, her sanity 
resist the drug that quells her need the best. 
Suboxone does not really make her free 
from cravings that persist. But comfort dressed 
in foil packs subdues the raging fire, 
the signals to her brain that coax her on 
the path fueled by her sickness, her desire: 
It’s heroin that plays her like a pawn. 
For months now, she’s been hoping for a sign 
that she can end Suboxone and be fine.

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