It always has a bitter taste.
Exposed. Flesh rubbed raw with knowledge and regret.
The potent herb clings to the roof of your mouth
and rivers of stones crush your ribcage.
You can always smell the aroma before you taste it.
A glass wall of illusion smashed ruthlessly from a bird's fragile wing.
Shifting space and time. Rotating galaxies and paradigms.
Awkward thrusts in vain to put the bricks back in place.
A siren in the background humming ominously.
What has been done to you will be done again.
Except this time,
you will not be paralyzed in confusion.
You will scream and shake your fist at the sky
before collapsing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
A voice beckons, "Stupid girl."
[This whisper is familiar to you.
Its deep timbre was the same tone
of the warden
who kept you locked deep your prison made of pills.]
Today you walk away from the voice,
smacking your lips in determination
and spit out the human waste.
A light shines ahead.
You thank God at the first scent of the approaching rain
which always seems to bring with it a coppery epiphany.