AN- it's freaky...I have no idea where all these poems are coming from. I NEVER used to write poetry. Huh. Well, anyway, over-all I'm satisfied with this one....some little holes where the formatting wouldn't work right, but otherwise, I think it came out alright. Jsyk, the lines of periods in the middle of the poem weren't really intentional...I had to put them there to keep the spacing between lines correct. Stupid Quickedit...

Absinthe Abstinence

---

and this is how it ends up:

Hunched over the bar, drinking her woes away
(oh, they're not gone for good, just lurking,
you need better shields.)

Because to her it's as if the beginning --is the end-- is the beginning,
just one giant cycle,
she starts at the end and ends at the start.

This story is nothing special.

This oft-repeated tragedy, she's one in a million
(but so is everyone around her)
and there's nothing about her that will start-or-stop the world.

So she i n d u l g e s in her self-pity with a sense that nothing will ever change

--

She wishes that she could be
drop-dead drunk
all the time,

That her mind could be
clouded
to the half-truths and failures that make up
a c a t a s t r o p h y.

Because then maybe she wouldn't have seen
the shadows
attached to his words when he whispered in her ear,
'I(don't)loveyou'

(And she has no right to be upset, because, oh,
she knew it, she's always known it,
he's always said one thing and meant another--
but denial is o-so sweet.

How dare he take that away from her?

She didn't want the curtain pulled back, she was
—happy—
in the dark.

Sunlight b u r n s, after all.)

--

So now what?

She's found him out, the devil discovered,
life dictates that she be better off
without his l i n g e r i n g stare.

(she hates going against the rules,
but she can't help but feel
as if she was the one
who committed the sin,
.................................................................................and fell s

o

f

a

.....................r from grace.)

--

He caused the wrong,
she's the one paying;
her story's (not unique,
and is) easily blamed

on life's little i n s e c u r i t i e s.

--

So she clutches her drink,
tear-drop (melo)drama turned alcohol,
and swears off that
n e e d for a relationship
(because a drug addiction is m.u.c.h less taxing;
she'll just stick with that.)

Bitter cliché,
but what's there to do?
This game's been played before,
and no one notices yet another w o u n d e d girl.

W.i.l.l.i.n.g d.e.n.i.a.l came back to bite,
but for those kinds of stories—

sympathy went missing.