Hazy recollections of friendly faces,
Shards of glass, empty bottles.
*****, whiskey, ***, wine.
Laughter, music, happiness, relief.

Yet, she feels nothing but pain and anguish,
After swallowing the last drop of bitter gin.
Tears break the barrier of her burning throat,
As it permeates every vein, cell, atom.

She sees a reflection in your cornflower eyes-
A reflection that is unrecognisable.
Instead of rosy cheeks, a crescent smile and a pair of sparkling brown marbles,
She sees grey skin, liquid mascara and a trembling lower lip.

A stranger to the others, but not to her.
Her mask of contentment is now cracked.
She can be seen for who she really is.
She feels exposed, and she hates it.

Next time, she should just stick to rosé.