Bitter is the tongue of night,
it drips tar upon the veins of thought
yet in its aftertaste,
a strange nectar lingers,
a sweetness that only the wounded
truly savor.

To drink bitterness is to drink truth;
it burns,
it claws,
it strips the mouth of comfort
but beneath its ruthless edge
lies a candied shard of clarity.

For the heart that knows bitterness
is the heart that has tasted
the world without disguise.
Its sweetness is not sugar,
but awakening
a quiet poison transfigured
into medicine.

So I sip,
slow, unflinching,
from this dark chalice.
And though my lips twist in revolt,
my soul,
strangely,
learns to smile.