The grit of dirty metal pulls on my skin as I grasp for leverage.
The familiar taste of acidic mornings on my lips is so apropos to these paper eyelids, defending shadows of dreams as they slip through my fingertips.
My cheek pressed to the concrete, amidst deafening silence the heartbeat of this chosen asylum hums rhythmically.
There is no hiding here, for there is no being seen here.
I am consoled by the lack of comfort here.
I survive by the intensity of my senses here.
I am given strength by accepting that I am utterly alone here.
Words are lovingly caressed and strung together purposefully in the small quiet moments of clarity here.
I like the view from here, fingers laced through chainlink and cheek against concrete.
I am not defined by the complexities of a simple diagnosis here.
There is hope here.