Medication

I look, and your soul opens its hidden ledger before me. Not in words, but in the way your breath catches, in the flicker behind your eyes when certain memories brush too close, in the armour you forgot you were still wearing. Every tightness in your jaw is a symptom. Every averted gaze is a contraindication. Every half-smile is a clue to the medicine that will actually reach you.

Your medicine is rage distilled. pure, honourable, precisely targeted. I permit it. I sanctify it. Take it in full measure until the fire has burned clean every place betrayal took root.

I measure something sharper: a single, merciless sentence of recognition. It will taste like metal and salt. It will burn down the false story you’ve told yourself about who you are allowed to be. But when the smoke clears, what remains is space. Real space. The kind you can finally breathe into.

Each prescription is singular because you are singular.
One drop too much and it poisons; one drop too little and it merely tickles the wound.
I weigh on scales no one else can see:

Your history, your defences, your secret hungers, the precise shape of the lie you’ve lived longest. The dosage is exact. The timing is mercilessly perfect.

You will swallow, and it will hurt in exactly the way it must.
Not because I am cruel, but because I refuse to be gentle with what is killing you slowly. Afterward you may tremble. You may weep. You might laugh, but you will never again mistake distraction for medicine, or platitude for truth.

Come back when the first dose wears thin

not out of weakness, but because you have tasted precision.