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