Closer

Vodka flavoured lips, perfectly pouted,
Old eyes sunken darkly into a head full of excuses
Long, white, nicotine stained fingers groom
Dull and thinning hair
Her blood-red nail polish not quite covering
The discoloured stains of starvation.
She commands the room
Commands whispers-
Pitying whispers, concerned whispers,
As she floats,
Rattles,
Across the space.
Bones as sharp as knives, sharp as her mind,
Near piercing the thin material she is draped in.
A glance in the mirror, she sees,
Not a skeleton, not wasted and gaunt,
But a hideous behemoth
A fleshy mound of slothful apathy,
A wasted life of piggish greed and gluttony
To be naught but further punished.
Her razor mind ticks away-
A little less tomorrow, perhaps
Then I shall be closer.