my head is full of poison

and every night i mistake it for medicine.

my head is full of poison, and every night i mistake it for medicine. i swallow your name like a prescription, waiting for the shaking to stop.

for a moment, i convince myself it’s working. the noise softens. the ache settles somewhere beneath my ribs. i let myself believe that maybe this time, you’ll be enough to keep me together.

but the hospital light flickers. the metal tray clatters, needles scatter across the floor like failed remedies. every promise of relief collapses before it reaches me.

nothing is working. every antidote i tried leaves me unchanged. i’m still unraveled, still broken. the poison lingers in places no treatment can reach. it runs through my veins, settles beneath my skin, curls itself through my throat until i can no longer breathe and every thought becomes numb.

i spend my nights searching for answers.

i pry open every cabinet for relief, read every label, measure every dosage. i follow every instructions.

but it’s not enough. the symptoms return—the headaches, the sleeplessness. the constant urge to reach for the very thing that makes me sick.

so i stop searching the cabinets. i leave the scattered needles where they fell. i let the silence settle around me and finally face the truth i’ve been avoiding.

it will never be the cure.

you will never be the cure.