The cold granite,
It’s sharp edges,
Felt through my plaid jumper.
An occasional screech,
Coming from the thick oak door.
The jolting impact,
The stab,
The stab of inches thick wood.
The shrill laughter,
Mocking me.
The rough pages,
Sliding beneath my fingers.
Wetness,
Trickling down my cheeks.
Tears,
Salty crust,
Clinging to my nose and lips.
The torment of each day.