She stands tall, an image of strength,

She stands graceful, a picture of serenity,

Weathering the storm of life by day,

But at night, she grabs her bottle.

And she cries tears that only she will see,

That only she will dry.

Then she puts the bottle away.

She repeats this, and the bottle grows and grows,

She holds tightly to this bottle, determined to never let it slip from her.

The bottle breaks.

And with bloody hands, with glass shards marring the beauty of her palms,

She finds another bottle and starts again.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.