I start the downhill walk to the mailbox 

ready to send my letter to santa.

Full of desire and dreams, 

Full of childlike wonder,

Full of life.

All they need is a mailbox 

to send their round, blue pills.

Full of easy money,

Full of taking advantage of the sick,

Full of death.

The mailbox is the vessel in which anything is possible.

Your new barbie dreamhouse, arriving at your tree on christmas morning

You drop to the floor with excitement, squealing for slightly too long over pink plastic

A synthetic opioid made entirely in a laboratory

A young man drops, found dead on his bedroom floor, gasping for air in his final minutes alive

I drop my letter and prance home, feeling accomplished and satisfied

They pick up their package, and are unknowingly holding their death wish

Is there such a thing as justice for 400,000 lost lives?

Each soul dwindling in the wind, feeling lost and forgotten in their final moments

Their loved ones agape, their neighbors bewildered, their postmen jarred

The children of their loved ones troubled, take to the one thing they know

They write a letter to Santa asking for their uncle back- but the mailbox can only do so much

There is no justice—no peace to come of this

All there is are leftover pills and a postage stamp

And a newly, 

forever empty, 

mailbox.