Cherry Wine

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I once knew a girl
who called herself a scientist, 
experimenting to cure 
the sorry emptiness 
that had burrowed a home 
into her chest. 

Everyday, she drowned herself, 
the back of her throat raw, 
whiskey, vodka slipping, 
momentarily purging her stomach 
of that hollow nothingness. 
And every night, 
she let boys 
pour their bodies into hers, 
pin pricks of clarity 
against blackness, 
so she didn’t have to be 
alone. 

And yet she was
as the moon is to the earth, 
witnessing life 
from a barren wasteland. 

She wasn't always this girl, 
a dim glow 
pining from afar, 
a pretty, lost face 
growing grey. 
Time ebbed away at her humanity, 
like the ocean turning boulders 
into pebbles. 

Only, her demise was not fate, 
she was not helpless, 
she was not stone. 

Rather, she chose to wash away. 

Her last experiment 
drove needles into her arms, 
liquid gold filling her veins, 
warmth gliding
between muscle fibers, 
turning to sweet 
cherry wine. 

Her fingers relaxed, 
the emptiness compressed, 
and before she drifted away, 
she gave the world 
a small smile.