Heavy cloud coverage today.
I spit at it, staining the barred window, watching the white foam dribble and streak down the glass.
A few days ago there was the most beautiful of azure skies.
I punched the pale yellow cell wall until my knuckles bled and bone showed through torn skin.
Pain is relative.
I scream, shredding my vocal cords, and marvel at how dull the sound sounds.
The walls eat it up and soon paint cracks and peels.
Fissures in the firmament.
Air steels in, a slivering draft.
There’s whispers of disease.
The contagion is spreading.
But not in here.
In here I’m contained, kept safe by my enforced quarantine.
Their disease is not my disease. Out there, they share and spread and plaster themselves all over each other in one huge globule mess.
In here I’m contained, kept solitary because of my proclivity for harming others.
Now I only harm the walls, in turn harming myself.
No-one sees me and no-one cares.
I listen with an ear pressed to a crack in the wall at mumblings, distant snatches of conversation.
The ailments of a world closed to me.
The rapture of a slow and painful death.
But death is too much to wish for.
I wish for wind, for rain, for heat.
I wish for external elements to impact upon me and test the bonds of my being.
If I stand after the onslaught, so be it.
I am attached to no outcome in relation to my survival.
I only desire to feel something.
Oh, to be free and to be infected.
To wallow in the throes of such wonderful toxicity.
I wait and I wait, with an ear pressed to the crack in the wall.
What a thing it is to be incarcerated and safe from it all.