Different Shades of Bitter

There are sorrows that do not shout—
they sink instead, like leaves
to the bottom of an untouched cup,
waiting for you to name them
with the benevolence of deeply seeing.

You thought you were drinking warmth,
but somewhere between the first and final sip,
something sharp began to speak:
a bitter you could not ignore—
and yet, you swallowed.

Not all bitterness is the same.
There is the scorched taste of being overlooked,
the lingering sting of betrayal,
the deep-rooted bark of old grief
still clinging to the inside walls
of a heart that tried too long to be strong.

Different shades of bitter
evoke different ghosts.
One sharpens its tongue.
One folds its arms, refusing sweetness.
One reminds you of all the times
no one came to unhurt you.

And yet,
bitter knows the way to wholeness.
It does not lie about what is hard.
It holds the truth others dressed in honey.
It says:
You are ready now
to feel what I’ve held for you.

So sit.
Let the cup cool in your hands.
Call each shadow to the table
and ask them
what it is they long for
beneath the shade they wear.

Then, begin again—
with fresh water,
and a courage to taste with grace
what once seemed too painful to face.

This piece emerged from a quiet inquiry into bitterness—not as a flaw, but as a complex messenger. It is a tender map of the internal system, one that honors sharp, protective edges without judgment.

It acknowledges the pain carried by exiles and offers a redemptive tone in their honor. And it gestures toward a Self-led path back to wholeness—one cup, one conversation, one liberated part at a time.