Page 100 of Glass Half Full
I tried to lap it up before it seeped through the gaps in the tiles.
I cut my tongue on sharp glass and sharp words.
I felt the fragments pierce my fingertips
Crunch under my bent knees and rip my shins to shreds.
My heart pumped terror and fury and chaos through the gouges in my skin
And I bled red as the wine on the floor.
I laid my head in a puddle
With an aroma of cherries and a hint of cedar on the nose.
I wiped my red palms on my white skirt
And murmured ‘Cheers.’
I said it louder
‘Cheers!’
As I emptied myself on the floor.”
The room has gone so silent it feels like everyone is holding their breath. Renee stares out into the crowd with haunted eyes, hands bunched around the skirt of the white dress she’s wearing tonight, and her words seem almost pained enough to paint the fabric as scarlet as her poem.
“I didn’t ask for a new glass.
I didn’t ask for more wine.
I didn’t trust myself with more.
I was less than half empty.
I was completely, totally void
And I told myself I wasn’t thirsty
As every hour drained me dry.
Then one day I felt it.
It was just a drop at first.
It landed on my cracked lips
And I reached for it with my parched tongue.
It didn’t come from a jug or a bottle.
It was water that fell from the sky.
It dotted my jacket and dried in my hair
As we rushed into the coffee shop side by side.
We stuck to lattes and paper cups.
