The wine and the table

I knocked over a glass of wine, and the violet rivulets ran into every crack of the table's facade.
My soul pained at the absorption of all of the heaviness, seeping into crevices I had not previously known.

Each new tributary mirrored an unspoken desire or a compromise I didn't want to make.
These red vines encompassed me with each trickling invasion.

But I do want to live out loud and make no apologies, and I do want to have a little soul staring back at me with full-bodied love. And I do want to sing and be silly and not be made a fool for doing so.

The tannins will destroy the veneer and the structure of the table, embedding into the foundation that makes it a table. I can't remember when I wasn't apologizing for something for which I didn't feel sorry.