Never Rotting Away

I am haunted by my own inadequacies. Failure sits by my bedside. Even in my slumber, I am condemned to remain awake. I relive my own tragedies; each leg tumbling towards the feet beneath them, each heartbeat marching towards my own demise.

I weep too often. Not yet does six hours pass before the onslaught of rain. My body is dehydrated from the loss of tears. I have no water left, for sweat.

This is hell for the privileged, I say. Not famine, nor hunger. Not homelessness, nor poverty. Just loneliness rotting at the core, but never rotting away.