My hands are covered in paint. My body proudly dresses the sweat from no work; the only thing I have to look forward to is the day I am let out of this cell.
The cell. Itfreezes me to death and peels my skin with contemptuous heat while I’m still breathing. It inks me into a world of unfortunate glories that no mad mind would understand, no mind like mine. Its key is liquified into glasses and glasses and shots and sips of bittersweet sorrow- sorrow I don’t feel.
When I finally escape it, I don’t know where I am, what I’m doing, what should have been done, I feel no pressure- my body and the wind around me dance a symphony of oneness; one only we understand.
They say I’m sickly; I’m crazy, I’m too selfish to be one of them. But still, my pen’s rhythm disagrees.