Age cried out with longing, as her young adult years; bled from her throat. Into a trash can.  Labeled wasted youth. Barely keeping her eyes open, she takes another swig. Blue moon juices coursing down her neck. Clawing it's way out through liquid fire. No one to hold her, on a Tuesday morning. It has nothing to do with the past, as long as she can't remember it. Stay sober kid, you won't regret it.