Empty

Every morning she wakes to an empty room.
A new day, the same routine.
Drag herself out of bed,
pull on the same old clothes,
avoid the mirrors at all costs.
She can't face herself.
Not when she hates everything about herself.
She's lucky to have a bowl of stale cereal
with week-old milk.
Lucky to have just that to live on.
The run-down apartment is her house.
The streets, her home.
Though her definition of "home" differs.
Home meaning a place of horror,
a place of hate and disgust.
A place to make enough money to last the week.
She swallows her pride, along with the pills.
Taking drugs to keep her numb,
to keep her unaware,
is the only way she gets on.
Nameless, faceless, lifeless,
a body to play with.
A cheap thrill with no strings attached.
That's all they see her as.
All she wants is someone to love her.
But who could love someone like her?
Shr goes home after a long night of meaningless sex.
For once in months she looks in the mirror.
Her face is pale, and her cheeks sunken.
Her lipstick is smeared
and the thick makeup on her cheeks and eyes cover bruises.
How did she let this happen?
She can't take it.
She wrecks the bathroom looking for her release.
Her perscription paradise.
The bottle is filled to the top,

and she downs them all in one gulp.
Who will miss her anyway?
A worthless life passes before her eyes

as her pulse quickens, her breath turns ragged.
There's nothing left to do.
But lay.
And die.