The writer is drunk, and she knows
how much she’s hurt. It is seven in the evening, but she refuses to sleep.
There is not a night like this, when there are no words to write nor stories to
tell. There is not a night like this, when being alone is the only reality she
believes in. There is not a night like this, when no one knows how she begins
lighting a cigarette at the corner of her tongue.
The writer is drunk, and she’d lie
if she says she never gets insecure of the wind’s soothing touch, of how its
palms get through your clothes. Three months, she understood why potions were
lurking beneath your language and there was antidote in it like a song that
lulls her at night. Three months, she understood why things got worse, and how
everything turned out to be just a game.
The writer is drunk, and she hates
it when she hears footsteps that echoed on the empty streets ninety days ago.
You told her how pretty she was, but deep inside she looked a mess because she
knew you were lying. Last night felt like Mondays when you flooded her with
blank messages that made her worried. She stayed up all night and got busy
waiting for you. She felt bad about it, but the stars reminded her to stay calm
while her mouth kept cursing your name.
The writer is drunk, and she asks,
“Where were you when I needed you?” She doesn’t tell because no one
will listen. She doesn’t tell because she is tired of your pretended apologies.
She doesn’t tell because she is afraid she’ll be judged. The writer is drunk,
and she cries when no one tries to save her. She pretends she’s fine, but she
can’t find any remedy to her wounded wrist slashed by a blade. The writer is
drunk, and she endures it, but fails to forgive you for causing this.
The writer is drunk, and she
regrets all the things she did to you. She used to work hard, but it happens
now she doesn’t want to. She drowns herself with tears and blood and a bottle
on her lap, as she slowly lies on the floor and closes her eyes. The writer is
drunk, and she knows how much she’s hurt. It is half past ten, but she insists
to forget. There is not a night like this, when there are no words to write nor
stories to tell. There is not a night like this, when there are women like her
fail to impress. But she chooses not to, because she’s drunk and dead.
