She leans against the cracked wall of her apartment,
Her hair messy, her hands bloody, her mind scattered.
With a small glass cup in her hand, clutching an ounce of vodka,
As if it is the medicine to a fatal disease, and she is a quickly dying patient.
She drinks, drinks, drinks; attempting to wash her problems away.
Yet she drinks this vodka, in hopes of washing her problems down the drain.
But she has recently found that no matter how much she drinks, her problems come back.
Like the sun, rising over the hill, climbing and climbing until the climax,
Where the sun collapses and falls down on her.
It falls, it falls, it falls; breaking her bones, breaking her back.
Her mind is swirling, swirling, swirling; she is feeling drowsy, feeling sleepy.
Then a part of her mind reminds her, she wishes that it doesn’t, that it wouldn’t but-
Its rent day, you know. He’ll come, knocking, knocking, knocking on that damned door. On the door that never kept out the pain or the screams or the wails or the cries for hope, oh lord, rent day. Where’s the money, he’ll say, where? His eyes will grow big and wild and you’ll swing that bottle of vodka in his face and tell him, tell him to shut the hell up, oh for God’s sake to shut the hell up, for your mind is already filled with too much noise. He’ll stare, he’ll shake his head, then his lips will curl up and spit will fly at your face, remember the feeling? The feeling? Oh, of course, of course you remember the feeling. The-
She tells it to shut up.
And it stops.
She finishes her vodka.
Not just in the glass cup.
But for so long she’s tried to control herself, telling herself not to drink too much.
But she lies to herself; today, tomorrow, and yesterday; every day.
She finds the large bottle and drinks, drinks, drinks it.
The vodka surges down, down, down her throat.
She feels powerful.
But the world is getting dimmer, darker,
It is suddenly all a blur.
She cannot find her bed.
Is she still in her house?
Who is knocking on the door?
The floor, God bless the floor, for it supports all of her body now.
She is shaking, not because she’s cold, but because her body’s finally had enough.
And she is vomiting, her last measly lunch spilling onto the cracked tiled floor.
Someone’s broken through the door.
Hands grab her.
And she is fighting, at least trying to, she is trying to fight.
They drag her, letting one of her bunny slips fall off and look terribly lonely in the hallway.
The hands are firm, strong, around her shoulders and eventually she gives up the fight.
Some lights are blinking.
Is she on the street?
She feels the concrete beneath her.
The hands drop her.
They prop her up in a corner.
She mumbles apologies.
At least she tries to.
Two feet are walking away from her, not accepting her apologies.
Her mother said-her mother said-, what was it her mother said?
The night grows dimmer, darker,
And she sleeps in the cold, dim, dark,
On the edge of the street,
Cars driving past her,
The eyes of the cars just missing her body in the cracks of the fence.
Will someone come rescue her?
Will anyone?
A night passes.
The sun rises.
She is drunk.
The floor beneath her is moving.
Is she in a car?
Some people are talking.
But they seem so far away, so ever far away.
She says hello.
At least she tries to.
No one hears her.
They’re too busy.
They pull up into a driveway.
Lord, some hands are locking themselves around her shoulders.
They prop her up.
Oh, what a pretty blue house.
It’s the same hue as the sky.
Such a brilliant blue.
The world swirls, swirls, swirls,

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This Poems Story

A girl turns to vodka to hopefully numb her problems. After drinking too much, she is dragged out of her apartment as she has not payed her rent on time, again. Through the night she is swirling in hallucinations and in the morning is saved by rescuers who are too late.