She hung wet and burdened on the strained clothesline
Haggard breath, as the wind whipped hard,
a curve ball eager to punish
hurls buckets of water to burst like heavy crystal vases
on regurgitated dinner
heaved. Drunk again.
sheet white face, bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits, lips dribbling yellow bile
But Sartre liked drink, called it freedom
And I enjoyed ripping the image
to lay bare
how a trapped mind and a broken heart fought
to define existence.
Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole 