Rock Bottom

How many times is that presumptuous bitch in the mirror going to answer every little rhetorical question that escapes these lips?
I've been watching her features sink and sully for some time now, but her gape vibe never seems to lesson.
Always with the same repetitive crap and blase philosophical insight about how I'm defining insanity.
I figured I'd smash her mouth to  shatter that shrewd speculum.
Her distorted stare just mocks me ten fold now, and I'm starting to think I just might be vapid after all.

Every morning I awake to the obnoxious shrieks of sirens and remember I'm not completely alone.
Watching as the rays of light gently caress his face thinking it's a miracle.
Not really, goddess knows he's just the monster of my addiction.
She says it takes a vortex of self mutilation to touch a corrosive fiend of destructive sex.
I guess the only miracles I've literally stumbled upon as of late are the remains of a bottle that didn't completely drain itself on the carpet.

All we have to do is lock eyes and I can hear her speak about fake optimistic jazz.
Then a rude awakening that phone calls only lead to bloody noses and a loss of dignity.
That I'm falling off the deep end, I swear she's psychic.
Yeah, the mirror has a desperate way of taunting me.
I put up a front so she won't get the best of me, but all I really want to do is scream,
"How dare you fucking preach to me about rock bottom when I'm well aware I'll hit a whole new level of low by next week!"

She would just retort with something like,
"How many times do you have to wake up in your own vile bile before you realize you're defining insanity?"
Dope man fever plagues in abundance recently.
And I despise her for spewing rationalization at me like that.
Yet I have no fucking choice but to learn to love her or I'll just continue digging deeper, and this time, oh goddess this time, I just might not be strong enough to claw my way out this time.