Almost asleep, but

I hate sitting in my room, in the lap of luxury. I look around and it's like the walls are eating me, it's like some disease and I can't scratch it off my skin. I drag my nails over goosebumps and hate being here. I shake and cry cold and silent tears in a to big house and wish that I could just have a crawl space where the ceiling didn't tower above me like the sky and the walls didn't echo their emptiness. I'm not claustrophobic, I want the stagnant air to close in on me and I want the city to burn, burn the black creeping into my room always, there's just no lamp big enough to light the shadows and make my empty bed seem like home.