In Poetry

A Melancholy Night

The wine was cheap, headache inducing liquid.
The glass was plain, full of water spots.
The house was empty, quiet, alone.
It was freedom, it was prison.

As the wine went down the shackles tightened.
The possibility to leave faded.
The DVD player was ready to play.
Play whatever was needed.
What was needed?

At the start the thought was unclear.
The intention whimsical.

Once glass down.
Four to five remained.
Warm feelings ensued.
A movie contributed.
To the downward spiral.
As the spiral spun things became deep.
Soul deep.

Disappointment raged.
Longing throbbed.

What she wanted was clear.
She wanted to be loved.
Loved unconditionally.
A person who would love her without makeup.
Someone who would applaud her accomplishments.
Accept her flaws.

She wondered when it would happen.
She cried.
She cried about the movie.
She cried about herself.

It got deeper as the bottle emptied.
As the movie plot thickened.

The raw humanity came through.
The body became less of a robot.
More of a vulnerable, soft, piece of flesh.
Made to protect a soul.

The breakdown was liberating.
Refreshing.

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