wasted

empty wrappers strewn on parquet; torn and crumpled,
with nothing more than a curtain of dust,
choking her to sleep.

each day her nightmares fail to please.

and the leaves wrinkled with time,
outside the decay coloured windows,
and the moths don't sleep,
where her treasures lie;
a couch of empty bottles.

six years ago, her daughter left for good.

rags for robes, she croaks a tune,
of delusional paradise,
and once more, she drags herself
over another night.

an apathetic life she led,
with a made-up meaning to live,
and sixteen years since her love left; died,
she's forgotten how to plead.

an eternity to never forgive.

rolled up eyes, she drones a continous song,
about life in ruins,
she hates her hypocritical self,
a self she never knew.

another gulp of a life-waster,
she indulges,
in a world of make-believe happiness,
but never once has she smiled since the day,
she tangled herself in her covers.

there's nothing left, 
bare house; bare soul,
where shattered memories linger,
gone
gone
gone

choking her to her final sip;
her final breath.

and she wonders why god hates her so.