By Carolina Jimenez

 

Loneliness is not limited to states of solitary

It slyly seeps into honeycombs of supposed happiness

It blankets the excitement of possibility

One does not feel the buzz of throbbing bodies in a busy box

The house is there but the resident is not

Aimlessly wandering in the maze of surrealism that survives in the sausage-like folds of the  brain

The tape worm that shimmies along the walls of your pia mater

The interdependence of body and mind has severed

The body is limp and the mind is spoiled, recently inhabited by snarky maggots that insult you left and right.