a poem by Heaven Collins
i think at least every woman has a point
in their life where they are the
bacardi girl. bacardi and diet coke,
bacardi and fruit juice, straight bacardi.
that shit’s magic.
that type of shit gets you drunk off
two mixed drinks because the
bartender poured for at least 8 seconds and the
glass was over half full before he even
started to stir in that sweet watermelon juice
and you just sip at it because damn is that fucking
strong and then 20 minutes later you’re wondering
why does my head feel lighter than my body and you’re
texting a boy and your friends try to stop you but
you never listen.
yes means yes and no means
for when you’re drunk and tired and half asleep
and don’t remember where you are
and feel some type of weight on your body
the next morning you wake up and
your mouth is drier than your ex boyfriend’s mother’s cookies
and your head is pounding and you barely slept because
of the thought of him coming back into that room and
you just quietly put on your clothes,
tip toe across the floor,
and do the walk of shame
passing a church on a sunday full of worshippers
as you feel the sun burn you a little.
you don’t cry about anything that happened
and just make jokes out of it, because none
of your friends can take anything
seriously. maybe it stings now,
but one day the dam will break,
your eyes will leak for hours, days,
maybe even weeks. but that’s when
it will be okay, and you’ll pour
those mixed Bacardi drinks for you and your
friends—just hoping that none of them ever
have to be the Bacardi girl.
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