“I should've known better.”
The mantra of the weekend;
Or rather, the morning after.
Pounding its reminder into my head.

“Next time, it'll be different.”
The rot in my stomach;
Of the mysterious concoction,
Haphazardly mixed together in fun.

“I'll take it slow tonight.”
The first drink kills time;
The second blurs boundaries,
And the rest are a race against time.

“What did I do last night?”
I promise I'm not that girl;
Who flirts her way out of buying her drink,
And into the arms of a stranger.

“I will never drink like that again.”
The false hope that lives in genuine words;
Until that drink goes back into her hands–
And the cycle starts again.