Constance—
You don’t contradict your name.
You are constant in your wavering ways
You wave like reeds in the dry summer air—
If the winds reeked of tobacco, and the reeds were
withered and frail
 
You’re corroding, Constance.
Constance, you constantly contradict your convictions
With lies of quitting,
Precariously teetering over an all-encompassing
Void of inky death.
You reek of disease;
Coiling, cold, creased disease,
Callously creating a creed
And corralling a towering tale of how you’ve changed;
On how change is great
But that red, red wine feels so damn good
Dripping down your degrading throat.
 
God, that red, red wine;
That curveball homewrecker,
Blood-tinged poison,
A dowry of demon piss,
A bitter blossom of destruction.
You’re a bitch to that blossom.
You think that change is a bitch to you,
But you only have the word clutched in your sick claws,
Constance—
You don’t have the meaning.
 
So, my question for you, Constance;
Were you always drunk?
Every Christmas you are, I know
But what about when you called the house,
Asking for “Princess Sofia,”
Catering to my childish dreams?
You make me embarrassed to be your niece.
You’ve talked of the need to chase your dreams,
And I feel your pain of never achieving your many goals,
But I can’t allow you to sap and suck the life out of the ones we both love,
Just so that you may live throughthe drama within us.
You have to live through what’s left of your life,
No matter how cruel
Or unusual.
Live it.