Weeds grew in my garden,
chains around my scales.
The rope around my neck got tighter as I yelled.

The hate as black as the night
filled ever vein in my being.
This is what poison does.

Bitterness made me ugly.
The boils on my skin,
sprouting from the disease within.

Then I gave up.
I was so angry at you,
hated you so much.

I laughed when you were down.
When they were killing you,
torturing you,
I smiled.

But you never knew.

That you poured the poison in my glass and freely gave me your disease.

But I am hurting instead of you.
So I died. Or thought I had.