A room. A kitchen.

A table. A chair. A pot to piss in.

Stubble burning through cheeks of alcohol.

Six bottles. Arm’s reach.

Three days, tops.

It only takes two. The days beat the drink.

The heart surrenders. The lungs too.

Dead in the chair. Slumped, but stuck. Unslipping.

Just bone and skin and silent organs.

Still.

The doorstep milk sours.

The letterbox fills.

The flies gather for the feast.