She had done it again, drank herself under the table literally.
Old colorful gum made constellations in a cracked wood grain sky.
In a couple of minutes she would drag herself home and put herself to bed in an empty house,
too big, too cold for one.
Empty glasses failed to empty her mind,
the heartbreak still fractured, and the tears still burned, and the mistakes still replayed in her mind.
She wished she could just spin on the floor and learn how to not feel a thing,
not her, her faults, her drunken numb.
She wanted to die for a night, until her hangover woke her up
for another round.
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