I drank the poison—
they named it love.
Sweet at first,
like honey on the tongue,
until it burned my veins,
begging me to stop,
yet no escape was left.

I saw the antidote
shining in the distance—
but if I drank it now,
would it already be too late?

Hours I wasted
lost in thought,
a war between choosing
and surrender.
And when I finally decided,
it was silence that answered—
I had died,
not from the poison itself,
but from the thinking
that chained my soul.

And yet,
reborn in the same body of pain,
I reached again for the glass.
I drank,
knowing the venom’s kiss.
The antidote lingered
just within sight.
This time I grasped it—
only to find
the bottle was empty inside.