She lie, engulfed in the sickening cliché
that should always have been someone else’s.
Stung, downed and drowned
by the angel dust-tongued liar
who ripped out her heart
polishing it, like a badge on his chest.
Her, the she-bird of ‘up the girls’ and
myriad other femme fatale superiority defiances.
Stunned, glaring into the ‘gotcha’ headlights.
She was meat.
Tortured, longing, yearning, willing the stabbing to stop.
Surrendering to mind-deadening, grave-groping despair,
the last of the pills, with the neat vodka,
slipped down her throat easily.
Maybe she would.
Maybe she wouldn’t.