Chronic

To feel the air again would be a privilege.

Bed-bound and struck down, air circulating from window to door, door to window, rarely open.

Artificial light as the day slips away, the sun illuminating the corpse of a young woman, not yet strong enough to open her eyes, nauseated.

Life starts to fade. Days merge into nothing as the night becomes endless - static takes over, from atmosphere to an intrusive thought. There is nothing here.

Blankets are no longer a comfort. Rocks instead of silk, binding me, shackles to a prison floor.

I remain hollow, swallowing pills as the clock commands. Purposeful, hopeful. Unable to see an end.