It is so cold in here. Inside glass sparkling skyscrapers, inside fancy cars, inside bee hives, inside what is supposed to be warm homes, and inside people.
The cold crawls under my thin skin, it is nippling my knees and cracking the joints of my fingers. This cold is lashing me with dreariness and anxiety, it takes parts of my flesh everyday as I shiver, it is turning my heart into an ice castle where my nerves are just frozen pipes. There is a cruel solitude in this internal frost, there is a hopeless aspiration for the sun outside the glass, always shining but never warm and kind, forever mocking the chill inside.
This cold always howling and whistling in a steep monotonous voice that shatters and distorts my inner unique voice. It seeks to turn me into another print, and I struggle everyday to find my voice in the vast prairies inside, I have a sour swollen throat and a saggy lungs as I gulp down all the air I need, more than I can take just to have the sense of breathing.
It is so cold inside of me, and I am exploited and wasted.