I know from personal experience how damaging it can be to live

Host: The night hung over the city like a bruise—deep, purple, and quiet. A thin fog curled around the street lamps, softening their light into trembling halos. The clock above the old church struck ten, its chimes echoing across the cobblestone square. In a small bar tucked between two bookstores, the air was thick with whiskey, woodsmoke, and the faint scent of rain. Jack sat at the far end of the counter, his hands wrapped around a half-empty glass, the liquid glinting gold beneath the dim light. Jeeny sat beside him, her eyes calm but knowing — like someone who’d learned how to listen to other people’s storms.

Jeeny: “Joyce Meyer once said, ‘I know from personal experience how damaging it can be to live with bitterness and unforgiveness. I like to say it's like taking poison and hoping your enemy will die. And it really is that harmful to us to live this way.’” She takes a slow sip of her tea. “I think about that a lot, Jack. About how much pain we carry just because we can’t let go.”

Jack: without looking at her “That’s easy to say when you haven’t been betrayed, Jeeny. People love preaching forgiveness until it’s their turn to bleed.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter, his movements slow, deliberate, like someone afraid of breaking the silence. Outside, a car horn echoed, then faded into the distance. The rain began again, softly, tracing silver lines down the windowpane.

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t been betrayed? Forgiveness isn’t for the one who hurt you, Jack. It’s for you — so you can stop drinking from that poison.”

Jack: “Poison’s better than pretending. At least it reminds you you’re alive.” He finishes his drink, sets the glass down hard. “Tell me, Jeeny — if someone destroys what you love most, would you still call forgiveness freedom?”

Jeeny: quietly “Yes. Because otherwise, they keep destroying you long after they’re gone.”

Host: The barlight flickered, painting shadows across their faces. Jack’s jaw tightened. The lines around his eyes deepened — traces of old wars fought in silence. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly, though her voice stayed steady, like a flame refusing to go out.

Jack: “You sound like one of those preachers on TV — all light and love while the world burns behind them. You forgive, and they win. You forget, and they do it again.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s refusing to let their actions define the rest of your life. Look at Nelson Mandela — he spent twenty-seven years in prison, and when he got out, he didn’t call for revenge. He forgave. He said holding onto hate would keep him imprisoned forever. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s strength most of us never find.”

Jack: sharply “And what did it get him? A world that still judges by color, a country still divided. Forgiveness didn’t heal the world, Jeeny. It just made people comfortable with pretending it’s better.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it healed him. And sometimes, that’s the only victory you get.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the door, and for a brief moment, the bar felt colder. Jack’s shoulders stiffened; he stared at the bottle before him as though it could offer an answer. Jeeny’s eyes softened. She’d seen that look before — the look of someone who carries hurt not as a memory, but as a companion.

Jack: “You talk about poison. But what if it’s all that keeps you moving? Some people live off anger. It gives them reason to wake up.”

Jeeny: “That’s not living, Jack. That’s surviving on venom. You can’t build anything on that — not peace, not love, not even sleep.”

Jack: bitterly “Peace is a luxury for those who haven’t lost.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a choice for those who’ve decided to stop losing.”

Host: The music in the background changed — an old piano melody, weary but tender. Jack’s fingers drummed the table in rhythm, his eyes distant.

Jack: “You ever forgiven someone who didn’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “More times than I can count.”

Jack: “And did it change them?”

Jeeny: “No. It changed me.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, fragile as ash, yet carrying a strange weight. The rain outside thickened, each drop striking the window like a heartbeat.

Jack: “I don’t buy it. The world runs on justice, not grace. If we all just forgave, there’d be no consequences, no learning. People have to pay for what they do.”

Jeeny: “Justice isn’t the same as vengeance. You can hold someone accountable and still not let hate rot you from the inside. That’s what Joyce Meyer meant — when you drink poison, you don’t hurt your enemy. You just die slower.”

Jack: “And what if dying slower is all someone deserves?”

Host: The room grew tense — like the air before a storm. A bottle clinked on the shelf. The bartender turned away, pretending not to hear. Jeeny’s eyes glistened — not from tears, but from something sharper, sadder.

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already become what you hate, Jack.”

Jack: snapping “Maybe hate’s honest!”

Jeeny: firmly “No. It’s heavy. And it sinks everything it touches.”

Host: The light caught on the rain, reflecting tiny fractures of gold on their faces. Jack’s breathing slowed. His anger, though fierce, carried a shadow of exhaustion — like a man tired of carrying his own fire.

Jack: softly “You think forgiveness can undo what’s been done?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can stop it from undoing you.”

Host: The words settled like dust on the counter. For a moment, there was only the sound of rain, and the faint crackling of the fireplace in the corner.

Jack: after a long pause “When my brother died, I blamed my father. For years. I thought he could’ve stopped it. I didn’t speak to him for a decade. When I finally saw him again… he was smaller. Old. Tired. He said, ‘I forgive you, son,’ before I could say anything. And then he died a week later.” His voice breaks slightly. “I thought I’d feel free. But I didn’t. Just… empty.”

Jeeny: gently “Because forgiveness isn’t something you receive, Jack. It’s something you give. Even if the other person’s gone.”

Host: The barlight dimmed further, until the shadows swallowed half their faces. Jack’s eyes were wet now, not with tears of weakness, but of realization — the kind that breaks something hard and hidden inside.

Jack: “I’ve been drinking poison all these years, haven’t I?”

Jeeny: nodding softly “We all have, at some point. But you can stop anytime. You just have to stop waiting for them to die.”

Host: The rain slowed. The fog outside lifted slightly, revealing the faint shimmer of the street lamps again. The air inside the bar felt lighter, almost tender. Jack exhaled deeply, as if releasing something that had been buried too long.

Jack: half-smiling “You make forgiveness sound like detox.”

Jeeny: “It is. The hardest kind. Because you have to cleanse your own heart — one memory at a time.”

Host: The clock struck eleven. The piano faded into silence. Jack stood, leaving a few notes on the counter, and slipped on his coat. Jeeny followed, her eyes bright beneath the dim light.

Jack: “You were right, you know. About poison.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “I usually am.”

Jack: “Maybe tonight I’ll start with one less drink — and one less grudge.”

Host: As they stepped into the street, the rain finally stopped. The pavement glistened like forgiveness itself — clean, reflective, and new. The city breathed again, and so did Jack. He looked up at the night sky, where the clouds were parting, letting through a thin blade of moonlight.

And in that quiet space between breaths, the poison began to fade — not gone, but finally losing its hold.