Another night out with the girls.
She stumbles to the second floor.
A single flower waits for her
pathetically against her door.
She picks it up and enters in
then throws it on the countertop.
The CD player starts to play.
Her evening clothes begin to drop.
The kitchen shears dissect the rose.
The crimson petals predefined.
She hears its thorny, final cry.
Her sink disposal starts to grind.
She dances to the living room
collapsing in her favorite chair.
She loads her silver, one-hit pipe.
The sticky smoke soon fills the air.
She feels the tension float away
while smiling at her victory.
No longer does she hate this man,
he's just a fading memory.
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