A piece from my dusty folder

Ok, this is what used to be a short story but I got lazy and decided to condense it into a pretty bad poem (because I’m lazy like that) for you blog readers to laugh at my crappy poem skills. It’s about this depressed dude who is in a relationship with someone who thinks is helping him heal but doing the opposite.

Bad Influence
-By Marianne Nguyen

I remember the way he looked at me
With those brown, bottomless eyes.
They were empty, hurt and broken.
He thought he was alone
Except when he was with me, when I was there for him
They said it was my fault he died
I’m not denying it

He knew it was wrong
Society prohibited this sort of relationship
Which made it oh the more tempting
He hesitated
He thought of his parents and his friends
But they couldn’t get take away the pain.
Not in the way that I could

The first night he snuck me into his room
His warm tender hands caressed my cold wet body
His soft lips quivered at the touch of mine
He looked at me longingly
With those haunting brown eyes.
And that's when I knew
He was intoxicated under my charm
That poor, stupid boy.

His irked parents were disapproving
They couldn't understand why he needed me
They said they wanted their little boy back
They said I had changed him
But they didn’t do anything about it

He continued to see me, and they all knew it
Because I left my scent, my mark
On his lips.
But they didn’t do anything about it

By that fateful night
He was changed
His eyes still brown and bottomless.
But was now completely under my influence
As we swerved off the brink of the road and off the cliff, plunging to our death

The policeman looks down at me with disgust
The one who ruined his short life
The boy's hands are still holding onto what is left of me
The fatal shards of a killer

The policeman turns away from the damage
To take a moment to collect himself
He finds it difficult when they die so young
‘He’s just a boy,’ he mutters to himself

He can’t get the image of the boy out of his head
His bloody mangled body
Looking up with those dark glassy eyes
Crying for help.

If you guys haven’t figured with my lame clues, the poem is written in the point of view of a beer bottle (well, more than one).