She stumbled into her apartment at a quarter past nine,
Flicked on the lights and poured a tall glass of wine.
She clasped it firmly, her fingers intertwined,
And made her way to the bedroom – one step at a time.
Creeping through the hallway, pressing the glass against her lip,
She knew what she was getting into, but still went in for another sip.
Her hands were trembling, the seam slipping from her fingertips.
She was losing control and there was just no hiding it.
Searching for another bottle, and chugging it down her throat,
She drowned her sorrows in wine, and then attempted to stay afloat.
The bitter-sweet taste would then sometimes grasp her by the throat,
And plunge her into the darkness of the ceaseless unknown.
She let out a piercing, blood – curdling scream,
That shook the ground, the sky and everything in between.
Laying on the ground, she didn’t want to make a scene,
So she played with her lighter, in the ruby red bloodstream.
She was sick and tired of being so weak,
Falling prey and then accepting defeat.
The same story would play in a cassette on repeat,
As she’d pour herself a glass, and then beg on her knees.
-- Fatima
