Doctor Poison

Doctor Poison

sits by the bookends,

whispering

lies I want desperately

to be true.

“It will be better for you.”

Just one inhale,

a bittersweet smell

pretending to be

mint leaves.

Taste the sting,

and we’ll be calm, at ease.

As if quietude

were the only symptom to

his cure.

He doesn’t always

look the same,

different facades for days

when new maladies

escape my interiority

that’s begging for water

and nothing more.

But there’s an unquelled ache

in this gut forsaken

by his toxins.

So, then,

it’s one more drink.

Taste the sting,

something bitter like cherries

and unburied memories.

Fill my glass to the brim.

Repeat again and again

until the bookends

melt and he looks

like that one

almost I wanted

to love me. “Always.”

Somedays, he fades

in the busyness of time.

Yet, he’ll find

me in reflections,

venom seeping through my skin,

smiles that betray

our dependance, and a gaze

longing for water.

“It’s best we stay together.”

And I’ll stay until willpower

or something stronger

climbs from my subconscious,

daring to escape his

hold,

dead bolted

against the vitality

of living.