She goes down to the watering hole every time her purse is full.
She guzzles down the amber liquid that takes her to sweet oblivion.
She throws herself at any grasping, grappling, groping hands.
She opens up herself to the battering waves of deceit disguised as love.
In the quest for gentle tenderness.
She wakes up alone, an empty, barren soul.
Wrung dry of every drop of self-esteem.
She looks at her broken body, dreams, and heart.
She wonders if it will ever rain in her garden.
She longs for the soothing, steady, showers of refreshing, restoring, relieving rainfall.
She yearns for tender, gentle, warmth, acceptance and healing love.
If it still exists for the likes of her.