Zelda Fitzgerald

God damn the Southern belles!
Those martyrs of chastity,
proudly content with discontent
in a land where women
become the mistakes they do.

By pitting self against self,
I will extract this terminal disease
of sweat soaked taffeta and lace
to bask in the present eternity,
reclaiming my wasted youth.

Still, I'm inexorably trapped
by self-imposed tragedies,
aghast at my own abandonment
as I willingly hurl myself down
the steps of perfect demise.

My bloody knees and severed hands
fail to ease suspicions
when a faithless muse lives
both free and chained within
deteriorating towers.

I regurgitate the fragmented memories,
frantic in my impossible quest
to vomit the exact moment
when my circle collapsed
and I lost control.

Now disemboweled by expert pens,
conquered, broken, and alone,
"The Amateur" at last resigns.
Stop searching for solace --
there is none.