it’s not a compromise

when the script is written by you alone,

no deviation allowed,

except i never got my copy and i don’t know my lines,

it’s clear this amateur production should be known by heart

but the scent in the air brings the monster to mind

and i know the monster grows by the hour

or

the glassful, not halfway, but over the top

dripping down like these stupid tears that don’t belong here,

or is it me?

i am woman, watch me do what i’m told, or not,

it’s a mind-meld-unknown and i

just

should

know

because alcohol fumes weigh the scale uneven

and no amount of Air Supply songs can restore balance

i am a disappointment through the bottled view,

perfection through clarity,

but nothing is clear anymore

and sappy love songs don’t hit that spot after awhile,

they ferment, become sour and nothing looks the same,

i wonder sometimes,

what would have happened

if i didn’t cross that bridge,

but i did