I hate sitting in my room, in the lap of luxury. I look around and it’s like the walls are eating me, it’s like some disease and I can’t scratch it off my skin. I drag my nails over goosebumps and hate being here. I shake and cry cold and silent tears in a too big house and wish that I could just have a crawl space where the ceiling didn’t tower above me like the sky and the walls didn’t echo their emptiness. I’m not claustrophobic. I want the stagnant air to close in on me, and I want the city to burn…burn the black creeping into my room always. There’s just no lamp big enough to light the shadows and make my empty bed seem like home.