He Brought Poison to the Party

I showed up with light.

With laughter.

With flowers in my hands and hope in my chest.

I wore the dress.

He brought the music and set the table.

He invited me in.

At first, it felt safe.

Late-night Scrabble.

Quiet conversations on the couch.

He remembered details. He listened.

He made it feel like maybe this time,

I could finally stop fighting to feel safe.

I thought: This is what it means to be seen.

And when he offered me his cup—

I drank.

Early. Eagerly.

Not knowing it was poisoned with withheld truths

and cruelty dressed as charm.

He made sure to keep it full just enough to keep me hydrated.

Not nourished. Not overflowing. Just barely enough.

Enough to silence the ache.

Enough to blur the truth.

Enough to keep me waiting for more.

I thought it was love.

I thought I’d found something steady.

But every sip diluted me.

Hope is a hell of a drug.

It kept me sipping, even when my stomach turned.

Even when my hands started to shake.

I told myself,

Maybe this time he’ll make space for me — between his to-do lists and titles.

Maybe this silence is just stress.

Maybe love just feels like this sometimes — tight, dizzy, hard to breathe.

I confused longing with loyalty.

I mistook his control for care.

And every time I thought about walking away,

he topped off my cup

just enough

to make me doubt my instincts again.

But the party went on.

And somewhere between the comfort and the silence,

something shifted.

He started showing up late,

or not at all.

He moved through the room like I wasn’t there.

Laughed with others while I stood holding empty cups.

I thought maybe I’d imagined it.

That I was tired. Overthinking.

So I stayed.

Topped off drinks. Kept smiling. Tried harder.

But something in the air had changed.

The lights flickered.

The wine soured.

The warmth left the room.

And still, I stayed.

Because I had already unpacked my joy.

Because I didn’t want to believe someone would smile at me

while slipping poison into the punch.

But he did.

Slowly. Quietly. Carefully.

He diluted my trust drop by drop.

Not enough to collapse me, just enough to keep me spinning.

Lightheaded. Off balance. Always wondering:

“Is it me?”

And the party?

It turned into a slow unraveling. A place where I kept showing up,

even as the music died,

even as the air turned stale,

even as I couldn’t find myself in the room anymore.

It became a ritual of self-betrayal —

smiling while shrinking,

waiting while wilting,

staying when I should have run.

A nightmare in slow motion.

A room full of illusion and rot — decorated beautifully,

but toxic all the same.

He brought poison to the party.

And I drank it for well over a year.

Until one day,

I set the cup down.

And as I did,

I burned the house he built with lies.

The one made of withheld truths, false promises, and performance.

The one I once called love.

I didn’t ask for closure.

I didn’t wait for permission.

I didn’t explain my fire.

I lit the match with everything he thought I’d never see,

and I watched it burn.

He brought poison.

But I brought fire.

And from now on,

I fill my own damn cup.