Waiting For

 I don't have an excuse. Days, weeks, months spent shackled to the radiator that only I can feel. It's warm and comforting, and keeps me safe from the chill of the world outside. But these handcuffs aren't plastic anymore, they're cold and chrome like strangers in a supermarket giving bad advice. My wrists ache and tense with the buildup of struggled scars. The radiator won't turn on anymore. My skin is turning hypothermic, maybe panicked asphyxia blue. Dark matter is the void of broken capillaries where sit the two gradually greying embers of my eyes. If I am to die, let it be icy, frostbitten, but risen with hell. The cuffs are again matte, the scars are shivering silver.