POISONED HANDS

Today I feel sharp, charged, and unapologetically alive:

Some people arrive like medicine,

smiling bottles with sweet labels,

but their kindness ferments in silence,

by the time you taste the truth,

it’s already burning your throat.

They drink from your well without asking,

spill nothing back but dust and excuses.

Your generosity feeds them,

yet they call it entitlement,

and leave the cup empty like it owed them.

Gratitude dies easily in greedy mouths.

They clap for your rise,

but curse the height once you stand taller.

Your light becomes their irritation

proof that they never came to heal.

Poison people rot slowly and blame the air.

They wound with comfort,

sting with familiar voices,

and swear innocence

your spirit learns to bleed quietly.

So burn the antidote into your name.

Walk away loud, alive, and unashamed.

Let them choke on the absence of you,

some lessons are swallowed too late,

and some poisons deserve no cure.