It never came as a monster—
never knocked the table over
or roared its name.
It was quieter than grief,
slick as church wine,
and patient enough
to wait until I believed
I needed it.
It whispered,
Just one more,
and I obeyed,
my breath turning into
borrowed fire.
It blurred the edges,
fogged the mirrors,
painted my veins
with glass.
And when I collapsed—
half soul,
half surrender—
the bottle held me
tighter than people ever did.
No one tells you
poison tastes like comfort
before it kills.