The pill went down easy. Within minutes I felt the effects crawl over my soul. My desire assuaged, the direction became clear. Get more of this drug, get more, get more. Addiction’s voice is haunting and nagging, worse than an old wife on the rag. In my gut, I feel a recurring emptiness and my mind is filled with noisy clutter. They dance in an unsettled pattern that revolves around like the moon, the gravity of seriousness holding both of them close. I filled my bottle up with pretty little pills, the things that give me solace in the routine of restless seeking. Shaking the bottle, I looked again at the prescription, in bold letters, FAITH, and in small script below it, “can cause mindless ambling to churches and Tourette’s like expressions of religious clichés.” Damn this Faith, it’s a drug that allows me to feel good, putting icing on the cake of my rebellion, easing my conscience as I continue to act like the devils who I keep company with. I laugh as I sit in church, reporting weekly like I’m on paper and dutifully pissing for a spiritual U.A.. Someday I’ll lay down my bottle and actually commit to a changed lifestyle, instead of a mimicked mockery of a spiritual man.