Her screams ricochet, bursting brightly in her head,
As all hope departs, and the gaps fill with dread.
Her cries are muted, her pain unseen
As her paper facade breaks from behind a white screen.
Broken vowels litter and spurt on the page,
Detailing openly her envy and rage.
But those heartwrenching words are never looked at and read,
So the anguish and hurt turn inward instead.
The carefully calligraphed words pierce through her skin,
Etching roughly on her soul her cardinal sins.
But this tablet of terror or scroll of self-hate
Is only opened when it’s nearly too late.
Soon after the author who penned this very sad tale,
Bemoans her life in a primal scream or wail.
She reaches to the cabinet for her self-inflicted plight,
Hoping that tomorrow everything will be alright.
As she sips on her gin, the vapour burns her throat,
As she downs a shot for every smug word or gloat.
She watches her dreams pour away with each measure,
Forgetting with each drop when life gave her pleasure.