Plastered
There is red wine
everywhere:
You do not own a corkscrew-
the cork fell into the bottle
when you tried to pry it open
with scissors- malbec gurgled
up its neck, spitting
over the whites of my bra.
I am seven and bleeding
through my teeth, sitting
on the fresh scabs that dash
my knees while you rap
at this purple mess
with kitchen rags.