I can’t remember the last time I had anything to drink.
The people have rioted and their outbursts have kept us far from society and, therefore, out of reach from resources.
Our tethered clothing have just barely kept us warm.
My tongue is swollen.
Every night I do still go to sleep.
I wake up screaming not too long after. Still, something grabs hold of my windpipe and squeezes so that I don’t make a sound when my whole body shakes with rage as I try to let out the pain, the fear, the hunger, the thirst.
Our bruises and scars sting with phantom pain.
There is no society here. No life.
This is not home.