Plastered

There is red wine 

everywhere:

You do not own a corkscrew- 

the cork fell into the bottle

when you tried to pry it open 

with scissors- malbec gurgled 

up its neck, spitting 

over the whites of my bra.

I am seven and bleeding

through my teeth, sitting 

on the fresh scabs that dash 

my knees while you rap

at this purple mess

with kitchen rags.