Gagging and gloomy from the smell of red wine, I sit on the floor,
looking up at boys who have taken ownership of my furniture
(and my festering feelings).
I contort my body to fit the space on the floor
just as the perspectives of my friends contort
from the alcohol.
No one even offers me one of the pillows that I picked out from the outlets
(they are cheap enough to touch the grubby ground)
so my body aches and cracks
like the wine bottle would if I’d released my pent-up anger against it
and my friends get drunker, but I get more fermented
(like sour grapes)
as men consume me and my couch and my sobriety—
‘but there’s room on his lap.’ my friend suggests with wine-stained lips,
and sure, maybe sitting on a man would be less degrading
than existing below him like his bitch on the stiff, hard floor.
So much for a girls’ night when it seems girls exist only for the boys.
No man in this room will ever be a husband of mine
(but maybe it’s because my body rejects
the trickery of man-made red wine).