Freedom, is my dying wish.
Let my spoilt soul taste it just once,
so that I can let go.

Or maybe, dying is freedom,
and my life is one day after another of being chained.
In a prison.
In a box.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And waiting.

Scratching my nails into the wall to count the days
?
These are the only marks I will leave.
??

Yet here I find that stains fade,
and blemishes shrink.

But scratches make cuts, and    ???
cuts make holes, and   ????
holes make tunnels, and   ?????
tunnels lead to invisible ebony where there is nothing to do but what I want to.

But in the darkness I can’t see that.

So here I am again
??????
Back in the prison
???????
Scratching the days on a dark wall
????????
Turning them into cuts, then holes, then tunnels, that lead to the abyss and back to -

The Box.
?????????
The Prison.
??????????
Me.

So, as the life seeps out of me,
a little faster every ?
I let my spoilt soul taste it,
taste Dying. 

Because dying is my freedom wish.
And maybe all these ????
instead of adding,
I should have been subtracting
???
Until I can finally.
??
Let.
?
Go.
∅