Mockingbird

The empty bottle stands staring at me. Mocking my futile attempts at peace. The iron fist of pain grips tight, it's claws tearing at the scabs of my unhealed wounds which weep into rivers of unshed tears. The ever-present taste of regret still stings my tongue, sweet in it's bitter bite. The empty bottle still stands...mocking me.. Slyly grinning at the fragments of my heart lying scattered on the floor