Dove Thoughts.

I kissed your cheek, and you tasted of a teacup dipped in bleach and then set down at the bottom of the ocean. You told me that you were not a crier, you were a shouter, but I saw otherwise; traces of saline rolled down your pallid cheeks and rolled off the abrupt ledge of your jawbone. The story of a nobody, you insisted. A nobody was what you fancied yourself as. I know that you are not a nobody. You are a somebody, a somebody who no longer understands love or hate or even pain, only suffering. You lay, rocking on the dust-ridden floorboards. Desperation flooded from you. You fought against this with all the strength you could muster from your fragile bones, but you were still a dove with clipped wings. Giving in and retiring to the beer stained sofa, you reached your hand into the old mahogany cabient. Like a child nursing a plastic doll, you cradled the bottle in the crook of your elbow, draining it and then running your index finger around the inside rim of the bottle, gently dabbing it on your dry tongue. Broken Britain the the guilded youth all wrapped into one; originally, more money than sense. Unbalanced and unshackled, you lead yourself to ruin.