Forty times she lifts her head to
See what she can see and what she
Sees right in front of her is a
Cake ablaze with forty mini torches.
There's no one there to assist in
The extinguishing and it seems to be
Fine for now 'cause once the flames are
Doused with a shout of, "It's over!"
She runs out the door of her mental prison...
Straight for the tequila her hands go to
Embrace another night making out with its
Glass mouth - sucking its face and swilling down
Its warm, wormy libation - she notices her
Permanent frown etched in the
Reflection on the side of the
Label-less bottle, peels it for jest
Since there's nothing there and no one to
Impress with her stories of being a
Pro chugger of alcohol and blows out
The candles with all that's left of her breathing.
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