Epiphany

Epiphany

She loves that man

and every day she resurrects

the same old feeling after some drinks

with the first somebody who stops

to listen to her.

She sat against the window,

sipping her pain on the rocks,

thinking of the invincibility of her heart

as it drizzles outside.

Life is stained: she can't see through herself.

Why couldn't she beg him to stay

when he removed the gauze from the wounds?

Love is a privilege. Love is...

She remembered Kim Casali's Love is.

Could never complete the sentence.

Sometimes she thinks her shadows are unseen,

her steps are unheard.

She is anchored to the past: a wreckage

is everything people can see as she drinks away

her complexities and flaws every single day.

When she gets home, she is numb.

God is dead, she might be too.

But it is too late and she can't think anymore.

Her epiphany will be tomorrow

when cries again and tortures herself

for the mistakes she didn't make.

Her sense of self is so amateuresque.

Maybe she will never comprehend

her own essence.

But who needs any insight in life

when a bottle is the only calendar

you have?

Karla Bardanza

http://asmoonsewsthesatinstars.blogspot.com
http://skcladatmidnight.tumblr.com
http://embracingthegoddess.tumblr.com
http://embracingthegoddessforever.blogspot.com