I felt like I was my body for once - like I wasn't only inside it.
Plucking tall glasses from their perch above the sink and
letting loose the dark that wiggled, relentless, inside it's bottle.
The gold was chipping from my mother's cheap wine glasses,
creating a sort of sad ambiance you, surprisingly, so often 
find yourself yearning for.


I could easily have chosen either extremity my sisters have so triumphantly
exemplified, their past in ash and smoke, their faces freshly pink from battle.
But as I sipped on bitter drink and cried on the front steps, in my most
adolescent fashion,
I was in wait.


There, in the belly of it - flavor resembling nothing of the puckering and
rambunctious, summer-sweet cranberry and pomegranate that
prod my insides - lurked a hazy twilight.


And I,
haphazardly stealing from the bottle's mouth,
didn't realize just what was stolen
from my own.