She wrote a letter to her perpetually wasted youth, scoffing as if it could be done “right.”
The page lie lain with litanies of love, ballads and trysts too scandalous to exist beyond paper (but they did, once).
And oh that sweet boy, unaware and reckless with the charisma he couldn’t keep in.
The look of his eyes when he whispered, “I never understood why your mother didn’t name you Grace.”
Empty bottles, pill and alcohol alike, weathered as they’d been strewn across the floor.
The now bare walls seem discontent, mere shadows of her former elegance.
She sank within the warmth of him, the abhorrences of the world gently breezing by.
The frigid edges of reality bite harder at first, until they settle into a perpetual gnaw
If you’d only just met her she might be the most alive person you’ve ever known.
Her long-forgotten friends mourn who she’s allowed herself to become (when they’re being honest).
But her parents remain proud.
So long as she wants for little that she can’t find in stores.
Her gaze draws across the dirty carpet, lingering where drugs and sweaty, sticky sex used to be.
Her paramour kisses the back of her neck, congratulating her on yet another glorious achievement.
She sighs. She might kiss him back.
The you-shaped hole remains.