I watch her bloodied fist punch and punch the grief-drunk girl in the mirror, while screaming, “Why is my glass always half empty!”
Once upon a more naïve time, I would try to calm her storm, suggest that her glass might find its way to full if she stopped shattering it to pieces every time things got tough. Then she nearly bit my head off, our friendship got stuck between the rocks of my rage and the hardness of her self-hatred, and I felt it proper to lose my know-it-all suit.I still believe a cooler head might serve her best, but I don’t voice the words. I just watch her and let her see me, hoping actions speak louder than words…
when the world is dark,
I taste the moon on my tongue
and the sun fills me
for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #6:Turn Cliché into Poetry or Prose. Take one cliché, two clichés, three clichés, or as many clichés as you like and turn them into poetry or prose).