Nepenthe

Impulsivity, parasocial longevity, anything not to feel
the wound of my
betrayal, the acidic dissolution of a sewn-shut mouth
hushing the algorithm for lurkers awaiting confessions with clasped
hand to
loins— just a cluster of sadists with an emotional pain kink. Your
pleasure is my yearning. My heart —
served on a golden platter for you to gracefully desert
while the leeches orbit my affliction, feigning knowledge of me
and
wearing their dresses of conceit in envy-green, because I am that
lovergirl, that netflix-and-chill-with-a-pretty-boy girl, who wears her mistake
like a crown, her delusion like a solution to the pain that will
be,
whose authenticity confronts your conformity until your
perception of this suffering becomes anything but a promise to make it last.

© Ruth Francise 2026

The golden shovel traditionally borrows a line from an existing poem and uses each word from that line as the last word for each line of a new poem. I borrowed a line from my own poem, Caroline, to create a golden shovel for this prompt.

"Feel my mouth clasped to your heart— desert me and that mistake will be your last."

As for the title of this poem, NEPENTHE appears in Ancient Greek literature as a magical potion designed to banish sorrow.