Perfect poison seeps through my veins,

bleeds into my brain.

It soothes my mind and body with its warm glow,

permeating the detached persona,

alleviating all concern that lies within.

Contentment is an addictive bliss,

respite from a chaotic life.

It fulfils the intrinsic desire for tranquillity,

too often taken for granted by the typical mind.

An old acquaintance whose purpose has now shifted

from aid into necessity.

Reliability draws you in,

but it refuses to let you go.

This is the sort of love you’re taught to loathe -

about which you’re warned,

and for which you’re scorned.   

A friend and foe in equal measure,

it answers to visceral compulsion.

The chemical answer to biological assault:

perfect poison by default.