It will never be the cure

I keep the poison beneath my tongue,
not enough to kill me–
just enough to make every sympathy
taste like bad omen.

It has lived in me for years,
fed by unanswered queries,
silence I mistake for leaving,
and shadows I teach myself to fear.

You know.

So you love me gently,
like medicine measured in doses
You assure me, “I’m always here”
and for a moment,
the poison loosens its grip.

You stay when I expect you to leave,
hold me through nights
when my own mind becomes a room
with no doors.

Your love, it’s warm.
Therapeutic,
Almost medicinal.

Yes, medicine can soothe
even without reaching the wound.

When you stray, even briefly,
the poison whispers again–
that solace is temporary
that tenderness always has an ending.

And I hate myself for knowing
that you could pour all your love
and still not touch
the deepest place where I hurt.

So I drink your affection
like something prescribed,
let your arms quiet the shiver,
let your voice linger until it’s inscribed.

But I have carried this poison
way far too long
it has become an intuition,
a voice I can no longer know
how to live without.

You can stay beside me.
You can adore me through it.

But I don’t think you can make it disappear,

because it will never disappear.

You will never be the cure.

Nothing will ever be.