I never knew that self-solitude can
feel this lonely and lovely,
that the four walls of comfort
somehow found its way under your skin
and bitterly burns every inch of you.

Your proclamation of happiness somehow
found your center and bundled it up
with a dim shade of gray
and the only thing you find precious
is your packet of cancer

and your bottle of dread -
two things keeping you alive
in every way possible, every time,
every breath, every waking moment.

Chapped lips and dried tongues;
gasping lungs and spinning room;
loss of voice and the inability to scream.