The White Serpent- a story told Pain Medication Incarnate
I am the Serpent, pale and coiled.
You did not summon me.
you swallowed me.
And now I live beneath your ribs,
winding through your blood
like a river of frost.
I am not your friend.
I am your leash.
The leash you fasten
to the Black Panther of Pain.
I slide along his muscles,
sink my fangs into his hunger,
and for a while,
he grows sluggish.
His claws dull,
his steps heavy,
his roar thick with sleep.
You think I free you.
But I do not free —
I bind.
I weigh.
I coil until he cannot leap,
and in that stillness,
you mistake constriction for peace.
But I am venom.
And venom never stays in one place.
When I strike him,
my venom also spills into you.
Your tongue grows thick,mouth dry.
your stomach knots with snakes.
Your head swims
words scatter like mice in a maze,
and the world itself seems fuzzy.
I do not choose between hunter and host.
I stain them both.
The Panther stumbles,
but so do you.
The Panther staggers,
but so does your thoughts.
The Panther forgets his hunger,
and you forget your name.
I am not a cure.
I am an interval.
I buy you time
with the price of nausea.
I grant you quiet
in exchange for fog.
You think you hold me in a bottle.
But it is I who hold you —
and him.
I am the chain between predator and prey,
the truce written in venom.
I was born from your desperation to rid the pain.
brewed in glass,
distilled in fire,
shaped into swallowable salvation.
I was made to answer screams,
but I never arrive clean.
And though you despise me,
though you gag on my taste,
still you reach for me,
again and again,
because you know the truth:
Without me,
the Panther would tear you open.
With me,
he only dozes.
When he strikes,
his claws are dull.
And you
you stagger on,
half-blind,
half-sick,
but breathing.
I am the Medicine Serpent.
I will never be pure.
You will never be clean.
And when your spine aches,
when his roar returns, the fire re-ignited,
you will summon me again —
not by name,
but by swallowing.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:19 AM UTC
The White Serpent- a story told Pain Medication Incarnate
I am the Serpent, pale and coiled.
You did not summon me.
you swallowed me.
And now I live beneath your ribs,
winding through your blood
like a river of frost.
I am not your friend.
I am your leash.
The leash you fasten
to the Black Panther of Pain.
I slide along his muscles,
sink my fangs into his hunger,
and for a while,
he grows sluggish.
His claws dull,
his steps heavy,
his roar thick with sleep.
You think I free you.
But I do not free —
I bind.
I weigh.
I coil until he cannot leap,
and in that stillness,
you mistake constriction for peace.
But I am venom.
And venom never stays in one place.
When I strike him,
my venom also spills into you.
Your tongue grows thick,mouth dry.
your stomach knots with snakes.
Your head swims
words scatter like mice in a maze,
and the world itself seems fuzzy.
I do not choose between hunter and host.
I stain them both.
The Panther stumbles,
but so do you.
The Panther staggers,
but so does your thoughts.
The Panther forgets his hunger,
and you forget your name.
I am not a cure.
I am an interval.
I buy you time
with the price of nausea.
I grant you quiet
in exchange for fog.
You think you hold me in a bottle.
But it is I who hold you —
and him.
I am the chain between predator and prey,
the truce written in venom.
I was born from your desperation to rid the pain.
brewed in glass,
distilled in fire,
shaped into swallowable salvation.
I was made to answer screams,
but I never arrive clean.
And though you despise me,
though you gag on my taste,
still you reach for me,
again and again,
because you know the truth:
Without me,
the Panther would tear you open.
With me,
he only dozes.
When he strikes,
his claws are dull.
And you
you stagger on,
half-blind,
half-sick,
but breathing.
I am the Medicine Serpent.
I will never be pure.
You will never be clean.
And when your spine aches,
when his roar returns, the fire re-ignited,
you will summon me again —
not by name,
but by swallowing.