She died in her bed on a Saturday night at age 21.
Too many irish car bombs to count.
Her boyfriend left the party early;
he tried to convince her to leave,
but she was busy drinking with her friends.
She wasn’t always a party girl.  She once had priorities, goals, passions, and even a scholarship to back them up.  
Years spent closed inside oppressive walls.
Voices clawing at her ears, telling her what to do.
Science fairs, ballet lessons, volleyball games; how could she say no? They only wanted what was best for her.
Several loose lovers, but never a promised dove.  There were more important things to do.
Like get into college.
Get a job.
Make money.
Not until 18 did she spend a cent on herself.
And spend she did.
Spin, she did.
Until the end.

The End

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