Her lips sucked the glass
like an old lover,
leaving behind rouge
lipstick stains.

Twenty-one candles
on her half baked birthday cake.
She wore her sash like diamonds,
her face was sweat stained
mascara,

tiara glued in place.
She could hardly see straight,
or meet her own reflection in the vodka daze.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so shit -faced

She would’ve noticed the boys.

How her friend tugged on her arm,
One more, two more, three more shots.
The boys are nice.

She couldn’t see,
couldn’t see the neon mark
on her friends jacket.

He said, “Don’t worry, we can take her home.”