Shots,
Another casualty.
Shots,
She only battles me.
Shots*,
She* thrives on lots of shots
at them, at her it's blasphemy.

Calling all the pharmacies,
this sanity's alarming me
A moments silence, thoughts are stinging, ringing, and disarming me.

Armed, am I supposed to be?
Pushing all to close to me,
My fingers multiply as I divide this "how it's supposed to be"

Is this how it's supposed to be?