The weeping woman
Drowns herself in vodka.
She became tired of schnapps last week
When she ran out of flavors:
Bitterness, anger, and vacant dreams
Lost their taste.
She knew they weren't coming back
But she allowed herself
To gorge on hope and expectancy anyway.
When the vodka loses its punch,
She may move on to gasoline,
There's not much left of her anyways.
Slumped at the kitchen table,
indigo candles burning to the nub
dripping hot wax on the lace tablecloth.
Eyes glazed and empty,
Tears and alcohol mixing in agreement
On the front of her best dress.