shot down

She is head in the dirt. Hopeless and distressed.
Lost, everyday she begins the morning in the same lame bar.
There she swallows whole whisky bottles, one by one, trying to forget everything.
As she gradually becomes this dead corpse, empty inside.
Living a deprecated life, waiting for nothing to come around.
Hours pass, still sitting there, at the corner of the table.
A glass of scotch in front of her, eyes in the void.
People around, they move behind without her noticing. She remains still, motionless.
A plaster taste in her mouth, she whispers to the bartender "another one please".
When the night comes, after one of too many, she screams and moans.
And like a hobo she wanders in the wet streets.
Passing out on a bench or on the ground, throwing up on herself.
She couldn't care less.