I wake up and stare at the bland ceiling, not moving for a while. I don't know how long I was sitting there, there are no clocks in here. No clocks, no posters, no windows, save for the small, barred slit in the top of the wall.

It had been more than two days since a drop of water had touched his lips. He was beginning to think that he was forgetting what water tasted like, if it tasted of anything.

it was like a sink that was overflowing, built up and up and up.

then it was drained; the pipes rusted over; the slight drip and drip and drip.

tantalizing.

then the water rushed like geysers do, hot and momentarily solid.

I hold my prefrontal cortex with the shame of

sinking, water lilies seeping from my lips into the grey-green

marsh I call (uselessly) 

home.

My mind hisses with the strain of too many canned-up voices

saying

Give me something to wish for

Hhhf—

Something to wish for.

I go about every day of my life

Like there's nothing to look forward to

Because there's no end

To my misery