Come into my cell. Make yourself at home.
I have lived here all 15 years of my life,
and have grown accustomed (though not happily accustomed) to
the rusted bars keeping me locked away,
the dripping water from a damp, dark ceiling,
the desolation and loneliness, as those who approach
are quickly driven away by the one who keeps me here.
Insanity seems to loom just out of sight,
lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right time to pounce
creeping closer and closer every day.
Maybe it's already here, overtaken me, and I just haven't noticed;
either way, it seems to close in on me, suffocating me
especially when my jailer has me kneeling over in pain.
Attacking me, beating the air out of my chest,
closing my eyes and wishing for death.
The only escape from this torment
leaves me covered in deep, ugly scars,
although, I guess, they are scars I deserve.
Parallel cuts lining my wrists, my arms, my thighs...
This unlikely cell exists only in my mind,
my jailer depression
and my escape plan,
a hungry blade chewing away at my skin.