Scarlet raindrops drip from her skin,
flesh supple and dark, blood red as sin.
They will ignore the scars normally,
'though some fan fantasies in their mind
of her writhing in pain, as limp loins stir
with ignited passions. Their bodies thrash
on hers in a heady crush – she feels high
as if she's downed 20 vodkas. Delightful.
It's all a game, and it's one they're winning
for they don't have qualms or regrets and
the only memories they have spark lust
and bring them rushing back for more.
Her memories bring trepidation and crashing
lows. She loathes being sober. And she's just
a puppet of her own hand; Downing pills by
the bottle, throwing back shots.
Tomorrow's nonexistent so today's just a game.