Glasses filled to the brim, but of what?
Alcohol? Tears? Blood?
Who cares they all taste the same.
Filled with nothing but a drunken man's guilt.
Frisky fingers trace little shapes in her back, the swell of a lump growing in her throat like the lust growing in his eyes.
Slouched over to review the sheet just to realize that it's just a mess.
What was that in the drink?
Who cares, you're still coming home.
She has friends near her who would take care of her and if not someone would say something.
Right?
Prince Charming doesn't exist, and no this isn't just some fairy tale with a happy ending.
Fairytales doesn't exist.
But
What does exist is the cries for help.
What does exist is lies.
It's because of the clothing she wears, it's because she was asking for it.
YOU ARE READING
Out Of Order
PoetryPerturbed. Anxiety awaits those who can't distinguish between actions or emotions, therefore never implying what she thought was important. Animosity. Apart from her balancing on the tight rope, resentment tipped her over and down she goes. Deep int...
