My bones
My bones, my bones creak in this old bed; the bed slats groan as I move.
I am paralyzed in this room—because I see nothing, because only frustration exists, because there is darkness.
There isn't a single ray of sunlight—but how could there be? I have closed all the windows, all the doors; every tiny glimmer of hope has vanished, and it is my own fault. I closed the windows, I closed the doors, I turned off all the lights with my own hands; I tore apart the only thing I had left.
Frustration is my only companion, for I cannot place the blame on anything—not on a wretched god, nor a tormenting church, nor vile people, nor stupid parents. Yet, even in the darkness, I can hear voices from the past calling to me—but they do not exist; they are gone, never to return.
Perhaps my resentment is heavier than the darkness of this room. I want to scream, but it falls on deaf ears; I want to walk, but I fall into a bottomless void; I want to speak, but there is no one in the room; I want to see, but the lights are out.
I isolate myself in what is gone so as not to wait for what will never come; because I expect nothing, because there is nothing, because there is no one to come down and save me, because there is nothing that wanted to save me, because I do not want to be saved, because salvation does not exist—only the adaptation to living with this pain, and resentment is my only heart.
