Bottom shelf

Tucked away, a shiny thing that will not rust
A trophy from someone’s past collecting dust
Time will make this one easier to digest
Never freeze her, carbonation always erupts

Stored questions, pleas, guilty apologies
Taste bitter in any consistency

The word sorry seems weak, but each year
It becomes stronger, the taste is clear

Confidence is worn as a second skin
The label surrounds, but is not within

Look closely, notice that it already began
Marks like freckles from men’s callused hand

See her shape, skin like glass from a god
Scratched and scared, a creation unloved

If polished, she smiles with perfect teeth
Despite the chips from being clenched in sleep

The thought was, give her time to breath
Until they realized, slow ain’t cheap

Yet the reason she isn’t around anymore
it is no secret, everyone’s heard

She could f*ck anyone, lights out
Most drank her, right from the shelf

When she was used, and he got drunk
Only one could ever sober up

Even if she was too young
She was available to anyone

Still she keeps it in, on the bottom shelf
The well liquor, used until thrown out.