poison (fff#6)

bigup sweet trini for spurring creativity. sorry to be late with my fff again. i know breaking the rules isn't fair... the rules are part of the exercise afterall. i won't let it happen again.

anyway, i have no idea how i feel about this piece. the trigger begged it was the eighth deadly... sin, but i just couldn't go that route, even though i kinda did. this seems to me like a spewing of loaded words grouped into phrase, but i'll be really interested to hear what people think, even if you tell me i suck and should stop writing. enjoy. or not.

it was the eighth deadly concoction in as many days; each more potent than the last. lies and betrayal finally constructing a poison of pain and sorrow and misery that could probably kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. love, the original poison, turned heads and stomachs, blurred vision and minds, loosened legs and lips and thoughts, and prevented preventative action. it was beautifully painful, torturing victims and leaving them scarred and sick, but not dead. complacency poisoned next and brought with it occasional self-pity and doubt, but worse, brought most dreadfully worrisome silence. the silence isolates but doesn't kill; though for most isolation is more painful than death. isolation is merely an incubator of poison. leave anything to stew long enough and it will rot. it brews rancid loneliness festering in a broth of hollow despair and if left long enough, suddenly there's contempt.

contempt is perhaps the most dangerous of poison because contempt breeds contempt and carries with it all the concoctions that came before. it allows lies and betrayal to spin their way into hate and love and life; one seamless lie woven so simply into the next blanketing whatever must remain hidden. if it hadn't already, self-preservation now takes complete control. pride and lust mask self-loathing and melancholy, convincing the foolish that what is good is best. surreal secrets compress and layer like thousands of years of compacted bedrock; too hard to breakup. they can only be stood upon, buried beneath feet where they can't be seen like preserved past ancestors. they are there but are only thought of, never seen. sands of betrayal become the bed to lie on and even the waters can no longer clean the distain. reflections are lost among the ripples and muck of water that used to be so clear, so calm, so blue; leaving liars to gasp for air in a whirlpool of misinformation and distrust until eventually there are only lies and betrayal. the truth, too complicated to explain and hidden so thoroughly that it is lost beyond even knowing eyes that are too exhausted from watching behind them and studying mirrors for a glimpse of familiarity. 

there is no antidote for contempt. it poisons until it destroys. leaving behind the shell of who used to be. and so i find myself concocting the eighth potion with hands i can't recognise as my own; my own voice unfamiliar as i talk myself through the process. the eighth poison mixed with pain and sorrow and misery; set for destruction. it could possibly kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. 

i drink.