Her eyes are dead and glassy
A bottle always seems to be glued to her hand
She rarely puts it down
Her house is as tipsy as she is
I'm always afraid of falling in
She always falls flat
Her voice is merely a croak
But she still manages to lie to my face
She sounds like a broken record
Her mind is like jello by now
The alcohol that flows through her is like poison
She is always forgetting but she never forgives
Her excuses are tired
"I'm sorry" is no longer a part of her vocabulary
She has forgotten my birthday for 6 years straight
Her skull is too thick for reason
Alcoholics are the masters of denial
She claims that she is ready to die
When she finally does,
I will not be sad.
I will not cry.
*She has been a walking corpse for as long as I can remember.