the bottle—
promised
relief.

thick.
sweet.
chemical red
(a silver spoon’s salvation)

I tilted it back
like Communion
for a God I yearned to answer.

my throat
burned.
I mumbled
something half-prayer,
half-profane—

not to be healed
just
to sleep-
For a night of relief.

the sickness needed soothing.
you offered sugar.
not cure.

coated tongue
vows whispered soft as syrup—
“just a little more.”

I swallowed.
and you watched.

drunk
on devotion.
numb
to the rot.

now,
even silence
tastes like cherry.