As I soak in the cinders of silence
that I myself have procured,
I blame the rest of the world for
the burn marks that never really go away.

I'm submerged to my nostrils, barely
breathing, yet somehow I still manage
to fill the tub with unending self-pity.

My tears do the rest of the work,
and they are the fuel for my embers,
and as I wallow in isolation,
I pretend I am dead.