She was a hot mess,
From her whiskey at breakfast
To her vodka dinner bell.
She floated past the days
Soaking in soured yeast and silk.
Her gentle skill and free love
kept me tied to her despite the fact.
I watched her degradation with
spite and envy, for being so ethereal
And swigging herself into
an early grave.
Copyright WB Welch – All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To see the photo that originally inspired this post, visit the Instagram link below.