People Or Poison?

Whoever told me that poison is clearly, identifiably bad is a lying, ignorant dirtbag.

It can be as pleasant as the smell of roses, with hemlock twisted in their thorned stems.

Hemlock results in full body paralysis, with your joints locked and your mind searching for the key.

Socrates didn’t seem too afraid of it, after all, so

perhaps my poison is a vodka tonic, reeking of ethanol.

It can be as charming as belladonna.

Dilated pupils enchanting every suitor,

A touch to the skin is nature’s blush

A rush of blood sent up to greet her cheeks.

But a chew of her berry will result in a corpse to be carried and buried in the same soil she grows in. I love the taste of berries, so

perhaps my poison will grow from my grave.

It can be as painless as tetrodotoxin.

When the octopus embraces you in loving arms, you can barely feel it bite.

Later come to find that you’re seeing the light

(of hopefully the stairway to heaven).

When you gaze at the chef preparing the pufferfish to be eaten,

adrenaline pours into your system in a rainstorm never predicted.

As he extracts the venom, you realize that although the poison is gone,

a fatal being will never change its identity.

Perhaps my poison is an aquatic delicacy.

It can be as seemingly innocent as mercury in that glass thermometer you used to see in the kitchen when you were young.

You thought you’d be safe with the element behind burned sand,

but one hearty drop on the tile floor

and a sharp inhale while trying to clean it up will leave you with a dormant heart and no back up.

Perhaps my poison is a childish mistake

It can be as cliche as cyanide.

Agatha Christie might use you in her story if you’re lucky.

Spies used to carry a small tab of it in their coat, so if they ever got caught,

they could save their pride and country with one taste.

Perhaps my poison is a mixed up prescription.

It can be as sweet as sugar.

Plain sugar,

sucrose. Intricately lacing everything I eat.

Its sweetness is addictive and surrounds me everywhere.

Perhaps my poison is a desert, a satisfying sensation I can never avert.

It can be as simple as you. Pleasant, charming, painless, innocent, cliche, and sweet.

I’d take a swig of arsenic if it meant transforming you into a cure instead of a poison.


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