Vacant wine glasses and late night crashes symbolic of her vessel with no presentation at the pallet,
but a spirit starving for remembrance some sort of legacy other than her occupation.
Because her normal skin looked like silk but had been masked by vengeance.
Baggage under her eyes deep within her overcompensating lies and all she saw
when she gazed into the ending skies was regret from that manipulation.
This life of sleeping through the static of practice for the everlasting rush she hoped for,
she was somewhat ecstatic, but not for the first time.
Because she was reminiscent of those times that she would have those late night drives;
Those moments when she would look back and say "How did I get here?"
Those moments when she would look at old childhood photos and say "How did that child grow up to be like this?"
When did I dismiss the morals that I subscribed to? I don't know what to do.
And she looks at photos of her beautiful mother in her youth and is envious of that smile she had when she was twenty-two.
And she wishes she could say the same for herself but she's lived in a self-perpetuated hell.
Because she took the literal stains and the literal scars and turned them into the emotional drain and then she fell apart.
And I've never really been one for taking second chances on times that I've been broken
but sometimes forgiveness needs to be put in place for someone to actually grow from these negative emotions,
and constructive use of the pain that's thrown at you is the only way to find refuge.
