Painting by Mara Light

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

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012

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