by Blair Hill
Bitterness is poison,
but it tastes so sweet.
Like a well-mixed martini
it glides down the throat,
smooth as freshly showered skin;
it’s not until afterwards that
you feel the infectious burn.
Fire, engulfing your body like
a newly whispered secret-
long and slow. Except
it feels comfortably warm,
as if you could open a summer home there
yet, it will never last for the season.
It will consume you in the most
desperate and intimate way.
It will feed off of every weakness,
every nasty thought you’ve ever had,
convincing you that those feelings are truth:
that they’re right.
And soon, you’ll never be able
to live without the negativity:
you’ll find yourself unable to see the sunshine.
Maybe not unable.
You’ll wake up every morning
with a demon on your chest.
And you’ll invite it out to tea.