Poison - Tabitha Fadenrecht (11th grade)

There is enough poison running through my veins to kill me.

My blood is boiling over like a pot on a red stove;

my skin has thousands of insects running circles underneath.

My eyes are old and weary, tired from the waterfalls of tears.

The poison runs down my throat, fed to me by those I trusted.

Those who I had been vulnerable with; who I had willingly put my own soul into their

hands, just for them to throw it off and discard it like it was just a tiny thing, not my entire

Being.

The poison spread from my stomach to my lungs, constricting me.

It burns my air; the feeling of expanding my chest is burdened by the fact that every

breath I breathe is one more that they will be disappointed in me taking. My lungs take

in air as fast as they can; it’s as if I’m right there—right on that edge and my body is

telling me to not to.

The poison leaks into my heart, slowing and weakening with every beat.

I can’t take it anymore, it says. It’s too much for me to handle – it’s everywhere;

weakening my hopes, letting my dreams shatter like dropped glass, stopping my love

from reaching my own body.

The poison reaches my head. I no longer can think of a time where it wasn’t there.

Flooding my brain, twisting my thoughts, covering my eyes. It's there, watching and

controlling every move. I don’t know how it got there, but I don’t think I could ever get it

to leave. I don’t know how. It fills my entire being, from my odd-shaped feet, my large

thighs, my oversized stomach; to my floppy arms, too small lips, my larger-than-average

forehead.

There is enough poison running through my veins to kill me.

Over and over again. It almost has.

But, it could never finish the job. Something, someone, anything; it always came at the

right time, the right moment, to stop the poison from swallowing me completely,

rendering it weak, even if for just a moment.

Maybe, in that moment, it can be controlled; it can be tamed, trained, and put away in a

cage, never to be seen again. But poison isn’t some dog; it’s slippery, gooey—sticking

to you like the glue you use to put the pieces of yourself back together.

It’s everywhere, and I can’t stop it. I don’t think I could.

You gave me it. It’s here, because of you.

This poison; it fills me, makes me who I am.

Isn’t that what you told me?