Her mouth sits agape, Shallowly wafting stale, dank air. Each breath drifts down to her lap, Resting there in a sour cloud. It reeks of dead fish and swamp mud. And her middle is drowned in feelings of despair Which seep sluggishly through the chambers of her heart. The drunken reflux stains her linen black— Black as the bottom of some lifeless lake.
She rises from her place at the edge of her bed Wading through her sorrow— Through her own viscous thoughts... She does this With what little spirit she can muster.