She lists awkwardly against the wall,
An empty red cup clutched in her hand,
Stringy brown hair in untamed snarls,
Baggy jeans hanging on bony hips,
Thick glasses perched on an aquiline nose,
Acne-ravaged face contorted in a scowl.
She stands amid the crowd,
Pulsing beats and flashing strobes,
A drunken, raucous mob,
Cavorting in unbridled mirth,
And she remains sallow and sullen,
An oily black cloud in bright April.
She doesn't mind.
She likes to watch from the side,
Looking in from the outside,
A spectator, a dispassionate other.
While the rest of them lose themselves,
She keeps herself together.
She screws her nose at the stench of beer and sweat,
Frown lines deepening in judgement.
She stifles a smirk, a quiet chuckle to herself
Look at them go, look at how they lose control
Tomorrow they'll be retching at noon.
She turns to leave, checking her watch
Wondering why she even stayed,
Why she didn't stay home, curled up in bed
with princesses, dragons, and a cup of chamomile tea,
She pushes open the door,
The crisp air of a spring night biting at her skin.
Then she notices.
How the men don't even give her a glance,
As they chug vodka and leer at prettier girls
And the women smile at her, not unkindly,
before turning back to giggle with their real friends
Posing for selfies with kissy faces.
See you, they say, even though she knows,
that she won't get invited again.
And suddenly she's filled with one last desire
To turn back,
To try again.
But the door swings shut.
Turn
By
Chrysalis 