Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Real passion

The week

What a week! she winced
Every morning waking up with a bad headache
A foul taste in her mouth and the most unpleasant feeling of all…
That the world was just the way she had left it the previous night
Improved not a whit, insurmountable problems waiting to plague her again
No respite.


The night

Evening was a haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol
Replacing the daze of screaming and insomnia
Tonight, bodies entangled
An ode to the twisted tango of her emotions all week
Yet, underneath the stupor…
Dad, how could you? Forgive me, ma, just couldn’t take it anymore so I ran away. Leave me alone!


Morning after

She thought she might’ve been able to call them moans of passion
They were after all…moans…of passion
It was just great sex, wasn’t it?

She shrugged, unhappy realization
It never is.

A night of great passion is always followed by a hangover. It felt exactly the same as every other morning this week.

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