circling the drain

caught in the loop of a vicious cycle

drowning in a stream of filth

sullied by an unyielding torrent

–

she drinks in a living room

alone

in fraying pajama pants

t-shirts too big on her bony frame

wiry hair

she washes only when she manages to drag herself out

nursing the pain of savage years

ravaged by age and a lifetime of disappointments

–

never did much

never will

–

goes to sleep drunk

with the smell of bottom shelf vodka clinging to a malnourished tongue

so sickly and jaundiced is she

that her husband can’t tell if its her complexion

or the cheap lighting in their dilapidated domicile

–

hates him so much she can’t stand it

calls him a fat fuck and

a pussy

tears into him

yet fears him if

the mood strikes him and

he strikes her

–

she stays anyway

–

strained relationships on all sides

isolated

any critique of her existence or choices

meets with an unethusiastic

“i don’t care”

–

she’s given up on everything

and everything has given up

on her

–

says she doesn’t believe

in god

but you can tell she does

wants to die but fears it

for hell may be awaiting her

as she falls into the grave

–

she never considers that maybe this is hell

that her life is

her torment

locked in a room

with the man she hates

and herself