catastrophe

She took his hand in hers with a rigor-mortis grip
Love drained from her fingertips and swirled down the drain in the tub. With head slumped, tears and water danced down her anger line. Her spider veins. Her crows feet.
She recalled when everything was mistletoe and sunflowers. Now just a memory. A tattoo painfully branded to the back of her eyelids. Every moment asleep or blinking began and ended with her genuine smile and her generic deciet. Her heart on a platter. His seed in another. Her exploded veins and tear ducts. Her laugh lines were a permanent photograph of better days.
The curtain falls. The colors dance. A good dream turned lucid where she is the director, actor, and producer. Still the same ending where the bad guy takes the prize.
This is where we live, honey, get used to the letdown. The anchor is down, you're not goin anywhere. It gets old fast, but there is no detour. Think you can make the best of it? Think again. Soon enough you will be just as broken and pathetic as as the rest of us. Its just a small matter of time. Grin and bare it as your grey matter shuts down and finally you will be welcomed into the world of the living and dying.
Better than dreaming.