The day a poet didn’t die-2: The witness

She’s at it again. Wasting my ink staging yet another death. I draft her crimson melodramas with third-hand metaphors as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic laced with rust and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume. I thread her June into forced sonnets (poor things), before her gin drowned the meter in proofed regret. Even a pen gets impatient. Sometimes she pauses, as though it might save her— I rooted for her to mature but talent won’t bloom from immature theatrics. Still, I ink her curtain call— the curse of being a vessel.