The lowest of lows

You find yourself in a place that you are not too familiar with The lamp by the ed is the same as you left it however the color is n't what it use to be. The bed is now in a position which suggests that sex was a catalyst in movement but you know good and damn well it has been years since anyone invited themselves willingly to your comfort. The cigarette stained walls also tell a tale which is full of regret and sorrow. As you get up from the mess and filth that is your room, the bathroom seems a little further than expected and the smell of stomach acid fills the nostrils faster than a speeding train going south. The floor is covered with last nights whatever's with the grand possibility of unknown liquid substance to boot. You slide into the  tile like second base making a Van Gogh out of the natural unnatural and admire the sweeping movements.
  The mirror tells no lies. Lines on your face use to not bother you until this day. Smells like, sounds like and all that encompasses the rightful owner of Hell submerged it's self upon your holy grail. Wiping the once beautiful face caked with makeup and tears you now notice bruises that weren't there before then night ended. Trails of violent passion ripped into the bloody mess which is not your clean up job for the afternoon. Shed only a tear for yourself you think. . . is this what you wanted to be when you was a child? Was there something else that you dreamed of being? How did you get here? Instead of beating yourself up with more questions unanswered you decide to clean up, more than likely tomorrow but what if that doesn't come? You think again that someone will be a rescue to the sinking ship but you know that there isn't anyone left on your side or corner, is there? Leaving this all behind would be too easy. Giving up isn't what you were brought up to believe. So where do you go from here?
You open the door noticing that the vomit floor has crusted and make a home. The walls aren't closing in so heavily but are lingering for your misstep. Down the stairs, through the hall, out the back door and into the light you must go but will your legs carry you the whole way there. . .,"it has to", you say silently to yourself. Your legs wobble, your stomach churns with distaste but your mind finally says you two can do it together. The air taste so sweet. The sky, when you get to it, will never be so blue. You reach out your skeletal hand for the knob and twist. . . .