These walls are closing in,

I feel their breath on the back of my neck.

Inhaling my restlessness,

Exhaling another moment lost.

A ceiling fan spins lazy circles,

Mocking the orbit of my thoughts,

Each blade a dull reminder

That stillness has the sharpest teeth.

The air sits stagnant,

Like filthy pond water.

And I am a fish with aching gills,

Gasping for something,

Anything.

I am starving for life –

Ravenous for something real.

But silence curls in the corners —

A faceless animal that refuses to leave.

If home is a body,

Mine is a skeleton—

Bones brittle with repetition,

Rooms haunted by the ghost of escape.

Even the windows refuse

To show me anything new.

Perhaps the world has turned hollow,

Or maybe I’ve hollowed out myself.

Somewhere out there,

Someone is moving — living.

And here I sit — at a standstill,

Jaded and longing for more,

Suffering from a hunger I cannot name.