Because they wouldn’t call the doctor 
For the 730 flight

And they said that she’d be fine if she just
made it through the night

the white pills make you sleepy 
            but the blues will help you wake
when you’re dreaming of a future
without the need for an escape

it’s a curious concussion, ingest the baby,
make it grow
  superlative or not, will tell you
all you need to know

its not the dying, or the living, 

                its just the waiting in the line
its in knowing that tonight
the alcohol will make it fine

and they take and eat and shit
              until they’ve bitten off your hands
and at the stroke of midnight
  you get the list of their demands

porcelain or poison-mix the cup and 
drink it down
because this scream is faintly dreaming
                belladonna in the crown

and your teeth will all be useless,
                    and your skin will go away
and your eyelids will be heavy
              when you’re dressed in your decay

but the curtain never closes,

it just lifts its head and sighs
    because the tide of the illusion
is just a waking lullaby