17600
Sitting, sipping cabernet, because it's bloody red.
Swirling the wine in the cup.
It transforms into a vortex, pulling me in.
Like a DeLorean, the past is alive.
It never dies, in time, or in the mind.
It stains quite similar on a shirt when it dries.
That day, a dream of repetition.
So young, so angry, a snarling beast.
Waking up to a blunt, and 40 O Z.
No masculine figure to direct the energy.
Anger prevails over common sense.
The cold sweats, running to throw up in the toilet.
It still smokes in my hand.
As the cup tips, taking another sip, of blood.
