Once I could write of rains
and the pain they bring.
Today I am afraid of the umbrellas, of shelters,
of the short-lived moments
of what I used to call happiness,
of the ill-planned escapes from cells
filled with my own darkness and filth.
How have I grown into this person
who recognizes only one face,
that is my own.
Can my selfishness be something
that I can blame someone else for?
Is this also some form of loneliness?