I Am Stressed Out

I wince at the after-taste of this deceptive wine. What began as pure bliss - to the eye, to the nose, to the tongue - has turned to pure bitterness. The rosy romantic red in the glass has split and stained my hands with blood; the enchanting smell has turned foul. The taste that made me once close my eyes in pleasant dreams now cause me to reel back in disgust, coughing; sputtering.

Despite it all, I still can't tell if this parting gift was something you intended for me, or if was a simple accident born of haste and a lack of awareness.