Death by mini-bar

Tiny voices in empty rooms,
black sheets cover the sun.
Windows baring crescent moons,
a battle with keys gone unwon.

Sitting on the bed,
little bottle in hand.
Head in the waste basket,
mouth parched like sand.

Look at the clock,
tick one, two and four.
Clothes strewn about,
headache raging, pills galore.

Out in the morning,
passing people stop to stare.
Lipstick on your teeth,
and yellow scrunchies in your hair.

It'll all be over soon,
you tell yourself while you smile.
Turn down the music, and the lights,
you'll feel like a human in a while.

Greasy food and a cozy bed,
some place soft to rest your head.
Across the room, sits the empty bottle,
soon enough you start to waddle.

Hour passes hour, the friends begin to call,
already plotting your next place to fall.
Back on your hotel bed and turn to the right,
the mini-bar sits, seeking its prey on this night.