Drained, Crying on Primetime.

She buzzes like the window unit cooling the stagnant air circulating through your empty motel room. Heart pumps dust out of clogged black vessels. She chooses your myths, your trysts, your treated concern; mesmerizing, econosizing, ever-trying. Slip to the floor in front of the unmade bed with bottle in hand, tears flowing for want of some beauty, you clutch the clicker and stare into those eyes of static. Reading into it like a voodoo master tripped out on Bone of Chicken, lip-read mantras slowly engulf the room. The lone rose droops slightly from the vase balanced precariously upon Gideon's Bible. A blue bird breaks its neck across the only window in the room, a muted tick not unlike the sound the remote makes as you frantically press the worn buttons. Don't make me medicate you, she pleads. It's a sad, sad thing to see a wastrel lunge towards the void: a sad, sad thing to hear the soul eke out the last of its lifeblood. You notice strands of hair obstructing your view. Taking a pull of the bottle makes this problematic obstruction seem like a simple drop of ink upon a manuscript burnt long ago; some sort of literary love long unrequited. Wrapped in a terry cloth "dress" you sashay across the square room smashing fast food refuse underfoot, you peruse the perceived diamond rings flashing before your spare, alcoholic eyes. The rose nods once more to the lady of static. Going unnoticed, this gesture of sympathetic desperation leaves you unchanged. No one will treat you with kindness as long as you have a say in it. It's not a matter of degree, for it is as deep as a well. It is a matter of choice. For this self denial leaves tracts so deep they're impassable. Treatment for disease like this seems impossible. Another drink, another smoke, another shovelful of dirt. Roses have said, that television leaves you blue. Don't sink too deep into the carpet for desperation lies waiting there for you.